Touch
by Kount Xero
Summary: Rogue, after their brush with Apocalypse, is having trouble adjusting to life.  Her phobia of touching, coupled with strange dreams about Cyclops, is driving her up the wall - what she doesn't know is that she is just moving towards a dark secret...
1. Prologue

"_**Touch"**_

_Author's Note: I don't own anything, obviously. "Touch" takes place after the fourth season of the series. I also do not own the title of the story, and/or the song titles, which are all titles of Diary of Dreams songs. Hope you enjoy, and if you do, please be kind and review._

**Prologue**

The sounds of their playtime followed her all the way to the gazebo. The background noise of half-hearted insults and gleeful screams irritated her almost as much as the hot air outside – it wasn't warm anymore, it was humid and hot, too hot for her to wear anything but a t-shirt. Hot enough that it made her almost sorry she didn't have a blouse or a tube top or something in her closet, and too little of the lighter shades of color.

Almost.

A small explosion echoed in the distance, followed by Doctor McCoy's roaring laughter. Judging by the small fizzling sounds following the blast, it was Jubilee.

What did it matter, anyway?

She took refuge in the relatively cooler shade. Kicking off her flats, she flexed her toes to relax.

Another explosion, followed by the familiar, wistling sound of Bobby's ice.

A fizzling blast. Tabitha, earning a scream of protest from a very exasperated Scott.

She sighed. The name brought on too much baggage to sift through on that day. She didn't want to delve into it in that moment, so she pushed it aside and decided to drown whatever feelings she might have been having with music. After all, she wasn't thinking straight and wouldn't be thinking too much straight until the weather necessitated clothes that could actually cover her skin. She was sure she'd still be wound up pretty tight, but at least then she could relax just a little.

Picking up her mp3 player, she put on the headphones and put the thing on shuffle, staring out to the horizon. The first notes of the opening song closed her off a little further. As the song progressed, it shut some more of the world out. She felt as if the music created an invisible barrier around her, one that nobody could see into. She was simply not there anymore.

She laid on her back and closed her eyes, allowing the sounds to carry her away.

* * *

Wary of movement around her, she sensed something drawing closer. She thought it was just some of the X-Kids seeking out a little down time, or a dive down the cliff (and good riddance, far as she was concerned.)

But then the presence drew closer. She feigned asleep, knowing nobody would be stupid enough to dare touch her.

Contact. A single finger, gently sliding from her wrist to her shoulder. Feather-light touch, almost absent.

She shifted, throwing a sturdy kick. She struck whoever was dumb enough upside the head and got to her feet, her headphones sloping off, inviting a rush of sound into her head. She tore them off.

"Shit! My glasses!"

It was just Scott.

Wait... just Scott? Why was he there? Why had he...

"They're right _there_!" She said, smiling, before she realized that he couldn't see. She bent down and picked them up.

Light playing on the ruby quartz lenses.

Gently, taking great care not to touch him, she put them on. "There ya go." She said.

"Ouch." Scott said, standing up. Rogue stood up with him, some semi-conscious part of her noting that he was standing in just a tight t-shirt and looked absolutely gorgeous. The conscious part of her mind simply erupted in rage.

"What the fuck do ya think you're doin?" Rogue asked, "What were you thinkin, touchin me like that!?"

"If I knew you'd kick me, I wouldn'tve!" he said, but his voice was far from angry, "Sorry. I was just..."

"Don't do that." Rogue said.

"What?" he asked.

"Get all sorry. If you start explaining yourself Ah can't stay mad at ya. Ya know that."

Scott sat down. Rogue followed suit, gathering her headphones and wrapping the cord around them to keep busy. To keep herself from staring at him.

His hair, that semi-conscious part noted, was all disheveled. It looked irresistibly cute. An itch in her palms told her to mess it up some more.

A heavy weight in her heart told her that she couldn't do that, and a devil on her shoulder told her she could look, but not touch.

"Why'dya do that?" she repeated. Noticing how close she was, she slid away to put some distance in between their bodies.

"I just thought if I touched you real light, nothing bad would happen. You should be capable of some kind of contact."

"Ah'm not." She said, "Ya know that."

Suddenly, too sudden for her to react, Scott reached out and grabbed her by the arms. Rogue almost screamed, and if she wasn't so fucking terrified of what was going to come next, she would. She was frozen in his grip. Her hands started to tremble and panic overwhelmed her.

Pulse racing out of control, muscles contracting too tight to make a move, mind a frantic mess.

Nothing happened.

"See?" Scott said, smiling, "Nothing. I'm still here."

"Whatthefuckdoyathinkyerdoinf orfucksakesyouknowwhathappen sjustletmegoletmegoletmegole tmegoletmegoLET ME GO!"

"No."

She tried to wriggle free, twisting and bending every which way, but he casually moved forward. He let go of her, but before she could leap away, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in a tight embrace.

Rogue's panic reached a tipping point.

She started screaming, trying to break his grip, her mind playing out scenes from her past, from all the moments that she had involuntarily harmed someone she had loved, or had to sift through the memories of lowlives just to get information.

Vision of Cody's body on the dancefloor, still.

"It's okay." He murmured, his hands idly caressing her back, "It's alright. You're not going to hurt me."

She whimpered another plea for him to let go.

"_Why?"_ she sobbed, _"Why are you doin this!?"_

"Because I love you. Because I know you can touch me. You're safe. I'm safe. Just look. Feel it. I'm here. You're not going to hurt me."

"_Don't fuck around with this!"_ tears started to stream down. She couldn't stop herself.

"You're not hurting me. I'm okay."

She was mumbling now, babbling on at a thousand miles per minute pace, shaking, sobbing, gibbering.

Cheek-to-cheek. His five o'clock shadow, gently sliding against her skin.

Skin to skin, flesh to flesh.

Warm breath in her ear, soft whisper breaking through.

"_I'm right here._"

Everything, every little thing inside her, every single forgotten emotion and ignored sensation exploded. She broke completely. Scott was still holding her. Started to rock her, gently, back and forth.

Fingers in her hair, moving, caressing.

"Shhh." Whisper, gentle. "Shhh, don't be sad. I'm here. I'm right here, you're not hurting me."

"S-s-scott..." she whimpered, unable to keep her voice from quivering, "Ah can't... Ah can't..."

"Yes, you can. See? It's been minutes and I'm fine. You can touch me... I mean... if you want to..."

He stated to draw away, prompting her to wrap her arms around him in panic. She was afraid that if he broke contact, she would never be able to do it again, able to feel him. She held onto him tighter and tighter... the tighter she held on, the slighter his presence became.

_No!_

She tried to hold onto him, grab onto something, but he was slipping away. It was as if he was falling.

She followed him down and leapt.

Falling...

"Rogue..." Scott whispered.

_Falling, wind in her hair, his presence fleeting... slipping away..._

"Rogue!" Scott said, his voice louder. Louder, but still distant.

_Everything slipping... and..._

* * *

Scott's face, his concerned, creased brow – his messed up hair. His hands, inches away from her arms, his shadow covering her.

The sound of music blaring in her ears. Something loud and fast, something she would love in another day. Not in that moment.

She took the headphones off as Scott leaned forward and gave her a hug. She froze, but he let go after a second or two, drawing away. Enough for her to involuntarily draw a feeling from him – the distinctive sense of worry, predominant, loomed over his ever-present care.

Worry for whom? Her, or himself?

The memory of her psyche-breakdown was on his mind most clearly, as he had felt the same thing he felt now.

She sat up, moving away from him.

"I tried not to wake you." He said, "But you were crying. So I inferred that it must not have been a very nice dream to have."

The sense of teardrops on her cheeks and around her eyes. She wiped it off with the back of her hand.

"What did you dream about?"

Her immediate first reaction was honesty, but she stopped the words just short of her teeth.

_I dreamt that I could touch you. I dreamt that you could hold me for longer than that panicky, cautious second and not draw away._

_I dreamt that you were there for me._

_I dreamt that you loved me._

_I dreamt..._

"Mystique." She said, "Ah dreamt of Mystique. About that night right here. But she wasn't a statue, she was the real Mystique. Just not able to move, y'know?"

He caught her eye. He was listening. He was listening intently, his focus was on her. Had that slight move of the right eyebrow, the signal that he was analyzing every word.

_I dreamt that you were holding me close to your heart._

"And she was beggin for me to take her back. To forgive her, Ah dunno, anything she knew, Ah suppose, to keep me from pushin her off the cliff."

_You told me you were right here and I believed you._

"And Ah didn't do anything about it – Ah cursed and shouted and then..."

_...you said it was alright._

"...Ah pushed her. Kurt came. Shouted at me, told me things, Ah don't even 'member most of what he said..."

_You said that we were safe._

"That's it. You came by just as he was screaming his lungs off."

_You said..._

"Hm. That's understandable, I guess. It's been like what, a month since we dealt with Apocalypse?"

"Yeah?"

_You said..._

"You're just coming to terms with it – you haven't really had time to get over the shock of everything. Of Apocalypse, the Professor's vision of the future... it's normal." Taking one look at her, he added, "Not any less painful, of course, but normal."

"Least Ah'm not a freak for once." She said and upon seeing his eyebrows drop along with his shoulders, immediately regretted it.

"You never were a freak, Rogue." He said, "Cause, you know, if you're a freak, then I'm a freak."

She just looked at him, unable to think up a comeback. Had nothing to say to that. Scott, however, seemed somewhat insulted by the whole "freak" angle, so she proceeded to apologize.

"Scott, Ah'm sorry..." she began.

"No need." He said, with a sigh. Small twitch of his lips told her that there was a need for it, "Come on, let's go back to the others."

"Ah'm gonna stay a little longer. Least until the crowd's cleared."

Scott's knowledge of Rogue told him her reasons, at least to his satisfaction, and he left her in the gazebo, walking away with his hands in his pockets. She watched him leave and mentally slapped herself for the freak comment.

The sensation of her lips, chapped and dry. Longing.


	2. The Colors of Grey

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter One: "The Colors of Grey"**

The mutants of the Xavier Institute often used the dining area by turning it into a chaotic mess of hands and mouths. Jamie had developed the habit of multiplying by at least six to get to the food quicker, which often invoked the wrath of others. Jubilee and Tabitha often looked for opportunities to shower people with their own food, which was why liquids were mostly absent nowadays. Noises of glee emanated from the area, mixed with Scott and Jean's calls to order, which, for the most part, went unheeded.

Rogue didn't like joining the others during meals. Too cramped a space, too crowded. Made her nervous. People tended to slip up more easily, especially if they were eating, and she couldn't keep as good a watch as she wanted to on the movements of others. She often lingered by the doorstep, unable to bring herself to go in, but really trying to. Failing every time, she had since then taken to roaming the mansion until everyone had had their fill and the dishes were being done. She had a few set routes she followed, one taking her through the main hall and into the dormitories, ending its first run across with the professor's room.

She often lingered by the closed door, wondering what the professor was doing in there, wondering if he could sense her presence. Wondering if he knew of her distress, if he understood.

That evening, however, she had a chance to see what the professor was up to, as the door was standing ajar. Not wanting to peek, she simply put her back to the wall and listened in; that inherently childish wrongness of eavesdropping evident.

"I'm telling you, Hank," the professor was saying, "It's nothing. It's just a headache."

"_Just a head..." _Rogue heard Hank McCoy start, but he stopped himself, "Okay, Charles. Fine. If you don't want to consider..."

"What? That it might be more than a headache? People get these all the time, the X-gene is no shelter from it."

"When was the last time you had a nightmare, Charles?"

Silence. Rogue's curiosity was piqued. What was this about?

"About two weeks ago." The professor said, "Why?"

"You do remember what happened when you had that nightmare, don't you? Every single person in this mansion, at least those who could actually control their powers, had them get out of control. Kitty almost phased right through the mansion and into the soil, for God's sake!"

"I know, I know... but that was a nightmare. This is a simple headache. A doggedly persistent and quite painful headache, but still..."

"Say what you will, your humility is infuriating sometimes. You are, to our knowledge, the world's most powerful telepath. In your case, simple things such as headaches are true causes for concern, and you know that."

Rogue was so lost in trying to figure out what was happening that she didn't hear him approach. His voice, fierce and calm at the same time, gave her a start.

"Not nice eavesdroppin on people, Stripe."

The scent of that cigar and the familiar, looming figure of Logan beside her.

"Ah was just..."

"Don't sweat it, kid, I've been doin' that myself. The prof's been on edge lately." A brief pause. "Always a pleasure to see that I ain't the only one who's not crazy for the dinner hoo-rah."

Rogue could only stare on, apologetic, unsure if she could speak. Wolverine had a presence that commanded the utmost respect just by standing there and smoking.

The sting of the smoke in her lungs. She coughed.

"Sorry 'bout that." He said, and moved the cigar as far away from her as possible, "Now, whaddya say we leave them to it and go eat? The locusts shoulda passed on by now."

Rogue nodded.

"Lead the way." Logan instructed. She complied.

* * *

The familiar clanging of dishes in the background, Jean scolding Scott for breaking her concentration with the noise and Scott protesting, not everybody is telekinetic. Some of us have to do it manually.

Rogue and Logan ate silently, Rogue taking half-hearted bites while Logan devoured the meal whole. She had never seen him eat like that before and felt somewhat like a little girl watching him. He noticed.

She averted her gaze and decided to focus on her dinner instead.

* * *

Quiet in the dining area. Jean had gone, on account of Scott telling her to go, he'd do the dishes. Liked the idiotic, redundant work. Made him feel more focused. Besides, who wouldn't want to clean dark red stains from light red plates with red hands and a red rag with red washing detergent from a red bottle, in a red sink full of other red dishes?

Rogue paid attention to the comment, but didn't say anything. Couldn't. Not until Jean was out of earshot, anyway. Sensing her agitation, Logan thought it best to leave the kids at it, 'cause whatever "it" was, it was none of his business.

A few minutes of silence. Idle sounds of the dishes.

"Ah didn't mean it like that." Rogue said.

"Hm?"

"Oh c'mon, ya heard me."

"No, I really didn't."

He looked honestly clueless.

"Ah meant that Ah didn't mean ta call you a freak."

Scott sighed.

"What gave it away?"

Rogue gave him half a smile.

"The red-on-red-on-red bit. Kinda makes it obvious."

"It just came out." Scott said, "Didn't mean to put it like that, it just came out like it did."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Over coffee?"

"You makin it?"

"Yeah."

* * *

They mostly discussed music over coffee – a topic they were both comfortable with. Rogue usually resorted to that particular conversation piece (hey, did you hear that new album by that band, it's incredible) to ease herself, to create a neutral discussion zone over which she could talk without really saying anything. The topic usually stood over how Scott couldn't relate to industrial music, that he craved that human touch more; the screech of the guitar and the octave-shift in the singer's voice. Rogue protested, claiming that synthesis was preferable to organic. Artificial perfection, four-on-the-floor and screeching, alien sounds.

The entire debate seemed to shift in the general direction of genetics when coffee lubricated the conversation and brought it, after a brief discussion of DNA/RNA reproduction, to where they were trying to take it.

"Ah'm sorry." Rogue said, "Ah really didn't mean nothin by it."

Scott immediately got dead serious. Rogue knew these moments: when the regular, uptight Scott Summers just became more like a strung-up version of Cyclops. Clammed up, impenetrable and always acting like somebody had just died.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't need to be told I'm a freak to know it. I _know _I'm a freak."

Rogue rose an eyebrow. What?

"It's not just the weird ruby quartz glasses and visors. It's not the fact that until somebody actually mentioned it, I didn't even know that Jean actually had red hair. I mean, what color are those stray strands of yours?"

"They're white."

"To me, they're pink. And the rest of your hair is maroon. Everyone calls Kurt blue, I think he's black. Or very, very dark red." He took a sip of coffee, "It's not just the monochrome world. It's not being afraid of opening my eyes in the morning. It's not that at all."

Another sip. He played with the cup a little, not looking her in the eye.

"It's having no control over my body, having no say in what it does. If my glasses were to slip or my visor was to get kicked off, I could... I don't know what would..."

Rogue was in shock. This was definitely one of Scott's rare moments – he usually walked around with an impenetrable shield of optimism and stick-in-the-mud commitment to duty. She suddenly became very aware that she was witnessing something few others had come across.

"I know you understand it." He continued, looking up at her, "You're like that, like me."

Rogue couldn't say anything. There was a barrier on her teeth, preventing her from speaking.

"Jean used to be like that." Scott said. Rogue's heart sank. "She came to the institute, unable to control her telepathy. Hearing the thoughts of everyone around her, constantly... I think I saw a bit of myself in her. Understood where she was."

He looked at Rogue, saw that she was hanging onto every word.

"But then... she learned to control it and... fuck, the other week professor tells me I will never be able to control my optic blast. Said it was brain damage from the crash. I'm stuck like this, and sometimes, being a freak really gets to me. Sure, I laugh it off, shrug it off like it's not anything, but it's me, this is me. My body, my eyes." He sighed, "I don't know."

He knocked the rest of his coffee back. Savored the bitter taste of the black liquid and regained some of the composure he usually had. Rogue was almost sad upon seeing this – the visible change indicated that the wall was rising again.

She thought she'd get a word in before it did.

"Listen, Ah know what it's like to be a freak – Ah was raised one, remember?"

"Rogue..." the crease on his brow, saying, I wish I could change that for you... she hoped.

"Nah, Ah really, really wasn't referrin to nobody but mahself. Ah'm a freak. None of y'all have ta be."

Scott opened his mouth to retort, but Rogue stopped him by reaching out with her bare hand. He didn't move. If he blinked, she didn't see it. There was a little less than an inch between her hand and his face.

He didn't move away. He stiffened up a little bit, but it would have gone unnoticed had she not been reading his every reaction. He stayed, almost daring her.

"See, if Ah touch you, Ah'll know more than Ah gotta. More than Ah should. Why aren't ya moving away? Aren't ya afraid?"

"No." he said, "I trust you."

"To do what, exactly?"

"To not hurt me."

Her eyes widened.

"What did you..."

"I'm safe." He said, "You're not going to hurt me. It's alright."

He moved forward, her fingers brushed against his cheek. An instant flood of memories broke through and spreading from her fingers, moved to her mind at an insane pace. Scott's thoughts, Scott's feelings – she felt what he felt. Screaming out, Rogue withdrew her hand with a jerk.

"Rogue, I'm so sorry." Scott immediately said, "I'm sorry, are you-are you okay? Rogue? Oh, shit, I'm sorry..."

"Why'd ya do that for?" she asked, "Ya _know _Ah don't..."

His feelings, overshadowing her own. A Gordian knot, slowly unraveling and the strands going every which way – she had to pick them up, one by one, knew that she had to. That was the coping mechanism the prof had come up with – categorize the psyches and memories and emotions she absorbed under names.

She stood up to leave. Scott was still apologizing like a speed train, making thousands of miles per second.

"No." Rogue said, stopping him short of another apology, "No need."

She turned to him and looked him straight in the eye.

"Don't take this the wrong way, okay? It takes me a while to organize what Ah get from a touch nowadays. That's what Ah'm gonna do now, Ah ain't leavin 'cause of you. Ah'm just gonna have to work this – ask the prof about it, he'll tell ya."

"I don't need him to tell me anything, I... I'm so sorry, I didn't..."

"Shh. You apologize too much." She smiled, her eyes starting to tear up, "Just... let me go this one time, alright? Ah'll make it up to ya."

He didn't say anything. She left. He stared on after her, wondering if he had hurt her more than he realized.

* * *

Strange enough, the gazebo had become the place for her to sift through her baggage. She had no idea why it was such a shrine to her, but it was. She thought it was maybe because she had finally claimed her much-coveted revenge on Mystique, had expressed a much-needed sense of aggression towards her. It was, more or less, an act of gaining freedom from her supposed "mother."

She sat down, the familiar sounds of the night surrounding her. It always took her a while to focus, and it helped to sift through what she had absorbed, to put them in separate groups.

Scott's thoughts. A garbled mess, as all human thoughts were – Rogue pitied the telepaths for having to deal with insane amounts of rapid-fire mind-impulses just to get a clear thought. It was like listening to ten albums simultaneously and trying to sing to the lyrics or name which song was on.

She did what she always did with the thoughts of others – decided it was irrelevant.

Next came Scott's emotions. Emotions were harder to deal with. Rogue hadn't met any actual empaths, but knew enough from her exercises with the prof that emotion cut much deeper than thought. Scott's emotions... she felt excitement from herself, a sense of curiosity mingling with an inherent wrongness of knowing exactly what he had felt.

There was aversion to what his body had learned to consider as a risqué move – touching her. But that was nothing compared to the sense of familiarity he felt for her presence, the sense of ease. He had felt a little excited when she was halfway to touching him: he was anticipating the contact, and it didn't bother him.

There were other feelings, buried underneath. Less clear, less on the surface. Buried under a mountain of distractions and other things, but still very much present. Underneath his conscious thoughts and feelings (worry for the X-Men, feelings for his teammates, intimate moments and desires...) there was a grey area. No, that wasn't quite it – it wasn't a monochrome blob of untouched emotion and unexplored mental pathways, it was an entire world painted with the colors of grey. Different shades and different densities, but grey all over.

Rogue stood back up, suddenly disturbed that she was taking liberties with his unknowns. In a way, wasn't she violating his privacy, or rather, _him_?

She decided that she was, all too quickly. Another thing the untouchable freak in her wanted – to move her away. Isolate her from others by making them feel just how deep one simple touch could cut.

She decided to head back to the mansion and sleep it off.

She knew she'd dream. And not just that he loved her, either: but that, in the colors of grey within him, he needed her as much as she needed him.


	3. Haus der Stille

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Two: "Haus der Stille (House of Silence)"**

The night time serenity of the mansion, unless the Brotherhood or some other enemy decided that at the top of their to-do-list was an assault on the Xavier Institute, was undisturbed. It was almost extraordinarily quiet, and Logan making his night rounds didn't upset it. For a man carrying heavy, indestructible metal as his skeleton and featuring well-built muscles around it, he could walk without a sound well enough.

He could never sleep for more than an hour or so. Nightmares and subconscious representations of half-forgotten memories always put paid to that. His healing factor compensated for his insomnia, so he usually spent his nights reading, or roaming the grounds. If something unnerved him or a ghost-memory seemed too much, he took to checking on the students in an unending patrol through the mansion. This routine helped both him and anyone who needed help. He could be there before they could finish screaming. Within reason, of course.

Tonight was one of those nights. He was on edge. He knew the cause, too – the conversation between the prof and Hank. Headaches. Migraines. On a telepath?

Logan didn't trust telepaths. His rapport with Xavier was based on the latter's ability to make sound decisions, not his ability to mind-fuck. He had enough experience to know that Xavier was a well-balanced and well-adjusted person, but that didn't keep him from being wary of his powers.

Check at the door, and Berzerker slept as sound as Bobby, whose breath was in the process of slowly lowering the temperature around him.

Logan continued going from door to door, often sniffing through doors or listening in to get an idea of what was going on inside. His enhanced senses allowed him to spy in on many bouts of night-time gossip. Amara and Tabitha, as usual. Logan understood the basic concept of gossip well enough, but failed to comprehend the necessity of it. In his experience, people talked, and that was that. No accounting for or stopping it. In the old days, and he did mean very old when he said it, people knew, but rarely talked loud enough for the subject matter to hear. They left well enough alone and whispered their disapprovals to themselves. Nowadays, words were weapons constantly utilized in an invisible war.

Logan's patrol took him across the rooms and everyone seemed to be sleeping. The house was quiet and everything was calm.

* * *

Next door. Rogue and Kitty.

That gave him pause. He was worried about Rogue, in his own fashion. Stripe hadn't ever struck him as the social type and mostly kept to herself. Except for enforced bouts of socializing, she avoided the mutants of the institute altogether. While wanting to chalk it all up to exhaustion or to whatever had happened with Mystique, Logan knew better. It was simply everything she had been through.

He understood some of it more than she realized. Fearing herself, fearing that she would hurt people was detaching her even more from the people around her. She was spending an awful lot of time in that gazebo this summer, with nothing but a book or music to keep her company. He could relate. He had an itch that needed scratchin' every once in a while, a persistent itch that told him to be alone. Spending much time in his past, as much as the prof could give back to him, told him he had harmed others with his gifts again and again.

He understood well enough. But he had the advantage of being over a hundred years old and having more experiences in more contexts than she could ever hope to have. It gave him perspective. She had none of that.

The patrol usually ended there, and he just walked back to his room to do something to kill time. He had taken to playing solitaire as of late, and if it hadn't been for his unconscious shuffling of the deck in ways that would allow him to win, he would enjoy it more.

He decided to do just that.

* * *

Something in the air stopped him halfway to his room.

Thick. Tense. Overbearing. Real. _Nearby._

His nostrils flared up instinctively. If it was an intruder, he would be able to smell him and hear him: he knew every scent and inherent noise of the mansion. Any shift, and he'd be able to tell.

And sure as hell, there it was. The stench of the intruder.

He had told Ororo to tighten up security, time and time again. Even argued with the prof to make sure they had adequate defense. But of course, lethal defense would require legal counsel and Ororo was convinced the institute itself was one large weapons depot.

This resulted in one thing: anyone with a whim walking right in.

* * *

Wolverine dashed across the corridor, following the scent. It was very familiar. He felt the same thing around the prof – his telepathy, involuntarily, blurred his senses and left the faintest of traces, confusing him. He extended his claws and turned the last corner, leading to the solitary staircase that ended with the prof's room.

Wolverine crept up closer, gently ascending the stairs. Standing by the door, he listened in. Nothing but silence on the other end. But that was impossible – his senses had never deceived him before. He knew what an intrusion felt like, how an interloper disturbed the natural state of things.

Was it his restlessness?

Not a moment's thought to it – his restlessness would have gotten to him for the first time in over a hundred years.

He aimed for the middle of the French doors and kicked them open, unsheathing his claws. He detached momentarily, his mind processing the entire room in a few seconds, enough for his first burst of action to stop abruptly. Nothing there. Nothing but the prof, who appeared unfazed.

Wolverine rose both eyebrows. Loud noise, a man with claws leaping into the room, and no reaction. He didn't even flinch. Wolverine scanned the room, sniffing the air. There was something, definitely, in the air, but not identifiable. Far and wee. Fading in and out.

"Hmph."

Wolverine got out of the room and closed the doors, gently, behind him.

"Coulda sworn..."

* * *

Rogue stirred awake, shivering.

By reflex, she immediately shut her eyes as tightly as she could – out of fear that her optic blast could kill whoever was in the way. And somebody always would be in the way.

Rogue clenched her teeth. This would usually happen in the mornings. Lose the line between her thoughts and theirs.

Scott's waking thought. Constant. She shivered. Her body loosened up as the initial panic went dormant, his thoughts disappearing.

She checked the time. Her bedside clock told her it was three o'clock.

The sensation of wind across her skin. Looking up, through her stupor, she saw that Kitty had left the window open. Again. Rogue just didn't understand why she felt the need to invite a night-time breeze into the room when the mansion itself was maintained at a constant, comfortable room temperature.

She tried to get warm by hugging her knees, drawing the bedspread in a cocoon around her. Didn't work. Frustrated, she threw off the sheets and got up. Shivered when her bare feet met the carpet. She closed the window and went back to bed, hoping that she could fall asleep again. Of course, that wouldn't happen. For the next half hour, she tossed and turned and tried to relax, but nothing worked. Common symptom; she was having trouble balancing what her unconscious mind could process and what her conscious mind could perceive. Scott's grey area kept unraveling and jumping out at her, disturbing her and fucking with her balance.

With a frustrated sigh, she got up and put on a light hoodie and pajama bottoms. Decent enough, she figured. Besides, nobody but Mister Logan would be awake at that time of the night.

But some part of her just didn't want to risk it.

* * *

The mansion, at night, always seemed a bit creepy to her. The normally vibrant place would turn into a house of silence after night. The merry screams of the kids and the daily hustle would be replaced by complete stillness. Normally, that kind of serenity, she adored. But tonight, something seemed off. The sensation of someone being right behind her followed her. She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see someone right there, knife in hand. She knew the feeling. Same thing when she saw movement right out the corner of her eye or felt someone with her in an empty room.

Ghosts, or approximations of people's memories intruding with her perception. It was nothing she couldn't manage. Not unless there were no cookies left. Hunger and other baser instincts brought out the worst in her, as she was assaulted with conflicted needs and desires. Everyone had their preferences, so much that they sometimes had trouble balancing them – Rogue had to cope with the latent preferences of all those inside her head.

Getting into the dining area, she immediately went for the fridge. Luckily, there was milk left. Then, she raided the supply cabinets for cookies Kurt hadn't yet gotten to. There was a whole large box of Chunky Chips Ahoy left, and she decided to settle for it.

She had only eaten one cookie when the doors opened and Jean walked in and upon seeing Rogue, paused to nod in greeting and then retrieved a cup. Jean sat down and took a cookie – held it between her teeth as she poured a glass to herself.

Rogue found the following silence awkward. She hadn't really had a one-on-one with Jean since Apocalypse. They had barely gotten out of the institute during that time, but Rogue had somehow always ended up with a buffer between her and Jean; and usually Scott, at that.

Plus, dreaming about her boyfriend didn't really help her feel more at ease. The prof always said such thoughts were a classical case of telepathy-paranoia: the irrational fear that a telepath always knew whatever you thought and felt.

Rogue knew that was utter and complete bullshit. Didn't help her feel any less naked to Jean.

"What got you?" Jean asked, in between cookies.

"Wha..?"

"What woke you up?"

"Kitty."

"Kitty?"

"Cracked open a window."

"Sounds like her. She likes having an opening."

"Guess so."

Silence.

"You?" Rogue asked.

"Nothing in particular. Just a feeling, first. Then, you."

"Me?"

"Your fear. You were very tense as you jogged down the corridors, Rogue. I almost screamed out."

Rogue glared at Jean.

"Can'tcha control that?"

"When I'm awake, yeah. Sleep dissolves control."

"Wow." Rogue said, not knowing what else to say to that.

"Tell me about it. I get lost sometimes. When I wake up, I mean, in that ten, fifteen second interval I lose the line between my thoughts and the thoughts of whoever is near. Usually Scott. Takes me a minute or two to get a hold of the base reality."

Rogue recognized the term – the prof called it that.

Another bout of silence. They ate their cookies and drank their milk, taking comfort in the sugar and wondering at what time they were going to get up in the morning.

The doors to the dining area let a very frustrated Logan through. Upon seeing them, he stopped. Then, he went to the fridge and acquired a beer.

He sat down to the table, looked at both of them as if asking why they weren't in bed, and then drank half the bottle. Sighing, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Logan..?" Rogue went.

"Quiet." He said, "I'm trying to hear."

"Hear what?" Jean asked.

"Somethin' other than your voices."

Jean and Rogue looked at each other. What was this about?

"Gah!" Logan exhaled, "It's there, it's _there_ and I can't catch it. It slips away... somehow."

The door opened once more.

"Doesn't anyone sleep anymore?" Logan said.

"Tough to stay asleep when you're with a telepath who can't." Scott replied. He took a cup, sat down and munched on a cookie.

"Scott!" Jean huffed.

"What?"

She pointed at his ensemble. The short-sleeve undershirt over white boxers, red polka-dotted.

"Less than presentable, I know." He said, grinning, "Still... didn't want to fumble for clothes."

Rogue tensed up and Jean caught it out the corner of her eye; wondered if the tension was because Scott was in the room or if it was getting too crowded for her.

Truth was, it was both. She didn't like it when too many people started cramming into the same space – by their own volition or not. It got too hard to maintain enough of a distance from others. Her body didn't make it easier for her, constantly crying for sensation, for another's touch. To brush a stray strand of red hair with a finger, to bump into someone. But every time she did, a piece of whoever she touched smothered a piece of herself.

She drifted slowly, putting some distance between herself and the others.

Half an hour spent discussing nothing but the world debate on anti-mutant sentiment, the professor's stance on human-mutant relations and the recent upsurge in Registration Act supporters, along with predictions on the upcoming UN Summit on the mutant issue finally gave her enough of a disgust with the environment to want to leave. She did so, murmuring half-baked excuses about sleep calling again, and left their discussion behind.

* * *

In the house of silence, alone. She wandered aimlessly through the hallways, the dim lights bathing her path in warm colors, trying to understand where she was going. The soft carpet under her bare feet, the draped, wool blend wallpaper designs gently caressing her palms. She knew she'd go somewhere at the end of the night, she always did.

Her path took her down to the entrance hall. She wondered if she should go outside. Remembering the cold breeze, she decided against it. Something in her just didn't want her to go.

Rogue yielded to the feeling, and turned her steps to the elevator.

Wait. What? The elevator to the lower levels? Whatever for?

Desire. That distinctive, recognizable pull towards a singular, nonsensical action – to go down? Why?

She took a step away. The need strengthened, grew more urgent.

The sudden feeling of eyes upon her.

A telling, telling itch on the back of her neck.

"Who's there?" Rogue asked.

Nobody.

* * *

She returned to her room as fast she could without running. Kitty had opened the window again. Hearing her steady breaths gave Rogue enough of a comfort to deter her from taking Kitty's sheets. She couldn't help it. Rogue had heard that mutants often had fixations, little compulsive behaviors associated with their mutation. Amara couldn't stay off land for long. Kitty didn't like having no apparent exit. Kurt loved to stay in one place as long as possible.

Rogue, well, after the whole Apocalypse thing, she tended to avoid people like a plague.

After all, she loved them all like one.


	4. Cholymelan

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Three: "Cholymelan"**

Debris all around them; pieces of the plane lying, scattered across the grass, right next to bits and pieces torn out of those infernal pyramids. Forgotten lights from the bayou. Underneath them, the hospital bed, the rough white sheets scratching their skin. Above them, the dark blue twilight sky. Strings of party lights, left over that one fateful Mississippi night, at the foot of the bed.

Beside them, each other.

Rogue looked at his brown eyes. They seemed gorgeous to her; deep and full of mysteries, of his colors of grey. She stared on, hoping to get in, hoping to gently bear witness to the unraveling of that knot rather than be the one to unravel it. He seemed unfazed by this.

His visor in between them. Unnecessary. Discarded.

"You like my eyes an awful lot." He said.

"Ah like what they see." She said.

"So, you like yourself?"

"Pssh! Nah. Not at all."

"Why not?"

"Because Ah'm worthless, Scott. Ah don't even have any real powers, Ah gotta borrow somebody else's 'fore Ah can do anythin worth a damn."

"That doesn't make you worthless." He said, "Besides, don't you know? We have no powers anymore."

"What..?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm here. I came to find you. No more mutants. We're all normal now. We're not freaks anymore."

"No." Rogue said, "That's not right."

"Why not?"

"How are we not freaks? We are who we are, powers or no."

"No, we are our powers. That's what defines us."

She drew her knees closer to her chest and he moved to accommodate. His hand rested on her shoulder, caressing. Her skin flared up, eager for more of the sensation. She shivered, shuddered. He continued to caress her, gently, barely touching.

"See? You're not going to hurt me."

"Stop..." she said, "Powers or no, Ah don't wanna be touched."

"I thought you'd be happy."

"Ah don't wanna be mah powers either way. Don't want it."

"I understand." He said, sighing, "You don't want to be with me."

"Scott!"

"No, I should've known, really. The regular, homo sapien me is just less relatable... less vulnerable."

"Scott, Ah..."

"It's because you don't want to save me anymore, isn't it!? That now that you know what's what, now that there is nothing for you to pity and go, _oooh poor kid, there's somebody worse off than I am_, it's done, right? The excitement's gone!? The novelty's gone!?"

"Scott, why are you..."

"You know, I don't even know why I ever let you touch me, anyway!" he shouted, sitting up, "You couldn't just stand up and ask me yourself how I felt about shit so you just take it from me, like it's nothing? How do you sleep at night, honestly?"

"Ah didn't..."

"Didn't what, didn't touch me to know what I thought and felt!? Didn't you almost kill me to save your own ass?"

"Ah was just tryna..."

"Trying to what? Why do you touch people, Rogue? So that you can take pieces off of them, that's why! You can't have anything other than those pathetic little pieces, anyway! Can't be nice to people to save your life, so you content yourself with this theft, this _rape._"

"Ah wasn't..."

"You know what!" Scott turned to her and his hands reached forward, "I think I'll just take something of yours this time, for a change!"

His fingers locked around her throat.

The knot of breath in her throat.

Quiet tears...

* * *

...quiet tears on the pillow. The sinking sensation of an empty room, onset of a conflicting desire to have someone to tell everything to and to have nobody there. The bedside clock, as per its nature, telling her it was 10:32.

A frantic thought inside her head, screaming, please don't let me phase through the bed and down, I hate the descent, I hate the downward spiral...

Stop. Rewind.

Kitty's thoughts. The waking thought always belonged to someone else. She didn't exactly know why. Some part of her suspected, with some degree of revulsion that it was close to Jean's waking moments: her own self lost in the shuffle of others. The professor had taught Rogue only to take a step back, stop her thoughts with a stop-gap measure (he called it a "kill-switch") and try to distinguish them from her own. Rarely were they ever hers, and she had gotten used to thinking like others in small measures. A few moments every day.

Looked up.

The ceiling. Cream. Pure. Undisturbed.

Infinite.

* * *

Kitty found her an hour or so later. Rogue had lost herself. Her mind was wandering, but it was wandering in the background and her eyes kept pouring more of her forethoughts into the expanding, infinite ceiling above. The trance was interrupted by her voice, asking Rogue why she was still in bed. The obvious answer was also obviously the wrong approach, hence, Rogue responded with a kind excuse: that she had just spaced out.

"You should eat." Kitty said, "It's already noon."

"Yeah."

Rogue got up and got dressed. Chose a sleeveless, light green shirt on top of jean shorts. No matter how hot the outside could be, she would have her jean shorts. She then straightened her hair as well as she could, knowing it would just frizz up if the humidity rose again, and it probably would. Still, better than nothing.

All the while, she could feel Kitty watching her every move, while politely pretending not do so. Rogue knew why – she was worried about her roommate. Rogue had learned some time ago to read people's reactions to her and could tell who simply showed pity (Jean would be among those) and who actually cared. Kitty cared.

"Rogue, listen, if you wanna talk or anything..." Kitty said, "Like, nobody wants to force it out of you but you've been... not yourself lately."

"Nah."

"I mean, really. Ever since the whole Apocalypse deal you've been kinda, like, cold... er. Colder."

"Nah."

"No, really! I know you like avoiding people, but..."

"Stop pushin the issue, Kitty cat." Rogue said, "It's nothin."

Rogue couldn't tell Kitty what she wanted to hear. Truth was, she had recently added an extra hour of waiting to her morning ritual, just to avoid the crowd. Too many arms that could move in the wrong direction, too many elbows to brush against, too much contact, too many people. All of that equaled complication, and she had no stomach for further complications.

"You want me to come with?" Kitty asked, seeing Rogue head for the door, "Y'know, keep you company?"

Rogue didn't even consider it.

* * *

She munched on her breakfast, filling her stomach enough to let her function, fulfilling an obligation to her body. Every bite felt forced. It wasn't long before that she decided to just cram all of it in one go and force it down with the power of low fat milk. Done, she felt satisfied that she wouldn't need to do this again for another few hours. She would need it.

Checking the clock, she saw that it was nearing noon. Close enough to lunch time. Just the right time.

She went up to the prof's room.

* * *

It had started a few weeks ago – her recurring dreams, the loss of the line between her being and that of others' in her less alert moments, the desire to things she normally wouldn't do. All signs towards a relapse, or so she feared: she'd lose control again and let all the after-images run rampant, all battling it out for supreme control over her body.

Of course, nobody but the prof had any idea what had happened to _her._ They had all just seen what happened to her flesh, not what was inside.

Going up the stairs, Rogue remembered it and shuddered.

It had felt like drowning – with all the others pushing and pulling her in every direction, her body a host to the facsimiles of different mutations, screaming for output. So she had lashed out, attacked – they had all thought it was because the power was making her insane. It hadn't been that. It had just been that her body couldn't cope, so it sought to get everything inside of it, out.

She had postponed facing the actual consequences for long enough. The crises they had faced had come along too quick for her to have any semblance of introspection.

And when she had, she had faced the inevitable downward spiral. Everything coming back to her, every touch, every memory of another, every sensation she had stolen... and all the while, her body ached for more, lusted for more.

Didn't matter one bit if it was voluntary, lack of skin-to-skin contact was starting to get to her, and her need for it was driving her up the wall.

* * *

The prof was sitting by the window, as always. Rogue knew from a brief brush with his hand that the window gave him comfort: the grid design across it provided him with a much-needed sense of grounding against the chaos he perceived out there. A welcome order into the ocean of minds raging around him every second.

Upon her entry, the warmth of his office surrounded her. The cool colors, the bookcases lining both walls, the prof's desk, the warm weather outside, the afternoon light... the constantly maintained temperature. Rogue recognized the touch of almost compulsive order there as well – every object in the room had a precise place, and the configuration of random objects (the globe by the right-wall bookcase, the small sculpture of the Vitrivian Man) made sense to the professor. They carried a balance for him.

The prof turned his wheelchair to greet her; warm smile, reassuring voice, gentle hand gestures. Time was, she thought these small things were just to mask his telepathy. Appear all goody-goody while probing her mind. But she had since then learned the touch of a telepath, and knew that the prof, despite his natural temptation, didn't intrude most of the time.

"Hello, Rogue. Kitty tells me you were late to rise."

Most of the time.

"Yeah. Couldn't get much sleep last night."

"Believe me, I can relate."

"You..."

"Tea?"

Of course, Charles Xavier wasn't exempt from using diversionary tactics. Rogue didn't probe – knew that the prof didn't like it.

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself."

Charles Xavier poured himself a cup.

"Ah dreamt again last night." Rogue said, "Yesterday, too."

"Yesterday?"

"Ah was takin a nap, by the gazebo. Ah had the same dream."

Charles' brow creased.

"Hm. Tell me what happened in those dreams."

Rogue did, as well as she could remember them. The more she spoke, the less vivid the dreams became. Charles Xavier's attention was unwavering, his focus absolute. He drank in every word, and Rogue knew that he was turning everything over and over in his head. They slipped away from her completely by the time she finished speaking.

Rogue stayed silent for a few moments.

"So, how many different shades 'a gone am Ah?"

"What worries me is not so much the recurring dream, as that part is quite obvious."

"Not to me, it ain't."

Charles smiled.

"Maybe not, but I really do not find it the best approach to just tell you what you are most likely thinking."

"Okay?"

"Do not misunderstand, Rogue, it's just that I have no place doing your thinking for you."

Rogue couldn't argue.

"What worries me is that the loss of the dividing line, however temporary... I considered that to be a telepath's ailment. You see, telepathy requires constant control. If not, the telepath would be bombarded with the thoughts of others."

"What's that got ta do with me?"

"The dividing line between the self and the other is a very shaky ground, because your perceptions of yourself serve as reference points to how you perceive others. You seek out others like yourself, and your approach to them is basically centered around how 'alike' you think they are to you."

"Ah know what you mean."

"That was simply food for thought, Rogue."

Rogue knew what was coming, judging by the way Charles absent-mindedly cracked his fingers.

"You gon' touch me now, aren'tcha?"

"I normally would, if only to strengthen communication during a telepathic link, but... doesn't have to work that way."

Rogue didn't argue. She wasn't eager to get a hold of Charles Xavier's memories as well. He had, until that day, avoided any actual skin contact during those sessions. Didn't look like he was gonna stop that.

"Ah told ya professor, it's not workin. They're still _there, _they're still in me."

"The stop-gap suggestion seems to be working."

"Yeah, but the aversion-suggestions are not."

The aversion-suggestions were simple misdirections Charles had planted in her mind. In a way, he had trained her mind to avoid certain lapses in self-perception and certain tell-tale muscle memory reflexes. This was supposed to cut her reactions – she wouldn't lose herself in thought and find that she was speaking German when thinking out loud or suddenly wonder what some random jock (whose name she somehow knew) was doing at that precise moment.

Only, it wasn't working.

"Ah'm not sure what's wrong with it, just that when Ah wake up or when Ah lose mah train 'a thoughts... Ah just lose it. The line. Ah think their thoughts, feel their emotions..."

"But the behaviors have lessened?"

"Some of 'em, yeah."

"Hm. Other behaviors have become more prominent, I think."

"Ah don't get it." She huffed, crossing her arms, "Ah stop doin' mah hair like Kitty and then Ah started to reach for the firin stud in mah visor in the Danger Room!"

Charles sighed. Inside, he felt conflict. He knew of a way, he could stop all of this, end her struggle. Wouldn't even take much – one touch on her forehead and he would be able to shut down her mind long enough to plant actual psychic prisons for the _Echoes_, as he called them. But that would require invading her mind completely, leaving nothing untouched and it was the most sickening form of rape, to him. Planting gentle suggestions and digging up suppressed memories was one thing, having free reign over another's psyche was quite another.

Thus, he was resorting to lesser measures. Suggestions, psychic re-motivations as opposed to full blocks.

"Rogue, I think..." he started, and he intended fully to say, get on with the rest of today's sessions, but the door opening interrupted him.

It was Cyclops, in full summer uniform. Rogue rolled her eyes. This meant only one thing. Training.

"Go." Charles simply said, "We can always reconvene afterwards, and I do believe you can use the exercise."

Rogue walked out of the professor's office, just when Hank McCoy went in.

* * *

"Alright, let's go." Cyclops said, but Rogue didn't move. She gestured at him to be quiet and come closer. He rose an eyebrow, and she repeated the gesture with a little bit more urgency. He complied.

The door, slightly ajar, let through the voices inside.

"Emma Frost says the same thing." Hank said, "She agrees with me. Of course, her suggestions were more novel than mine."

"Such as?"

"She suggested we produce some neuro-supressants to decrease your telepathic ability for now. She can only come along next week and until then, you need to be controlled."

"I will not take neuro-supressants." Charles said, "I can not."

"And why not?"

"It does not help to block my telepathy." Charles said, "Just like how suppressing memories never works, blocking out my telepathy is a worse solution than leaving my powers run amok. Further, the block will most likely unravel in the face of new variables and I have no intention of experimenting with unstable chemicals on just Ms. Frost's suggestion."

"I hope you have a better reason than a simple, I don't wanna, on this."

"Hank, I can't afford to dampen my telepathy or introduce chaotic variables to my powers!"

"Charles, you don't know what will happen if this gets out of hand. Neither do I! Nobody does! All we know is that we need to do something about this!"

"Do some... wait... we're not as alone as we think we are."

"Run!" Rogue whispered to Cyclops and dashed down the stairs.

Cyclops just stared after her for a few seconds, and followed.


	5. Amok

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Four: "Amok"**

After going down to the lockers and changing into her uniform, Rogue asked Cyclops what he needed her so badly for. He smiled, an expression she recognized - he was smiling like a kid, full of excitement and joy at the prospect of a new training scheme or scenario he had devised – he looked like he had made a whole assembly line for mud pies in the sandbox and was extremely proud of it.

"Well, I thought I'd help you." He said.

"Help me? Help me how?"

"You see, even with uncontrollable powers like ours, practice does make perfect. It doesn't shut them off, but it can create damage control. You can't avoid draining people, and I can't avoid blasting them, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't experiment with them. You know, see what we can do."

"Ya practiced that speech."

"Yes, yes I did."

"Whatcha have in mind?"

"I thought I'd bring in three more in."

"Three?"

"Powers in opposition at first. Amara and Bobby and Jamie, for instance."

"Jamie?"

"Element of surprise."

"Ah'm interested."

"We go in and you touch us. One by one. Collect all four powers and we'll se if they can take you down."

Rogue stared at him. Cyclops stood there, smiling cockily, his hands on his hips. The bastard was just fucking standing there, smiling, telling her to touch four mutants just so they could have a training session.

Her eyes narrowed to slits. Cyclops noticed it and his grin vanished.

"What's wrong?"

"Ya serious with this?"

"With what? The..." –realization on his face- "The idea? Look, Rogue, it's just a little touch..."

"What the fuck is it with you, Scott!?" Rogue snapped, "What, you want me to lose control again, that it!? Not victim enough for ya when Ah'm at least close to normal?"

"Whoah, whoah, slow down, I didn't..."

"Shut up. You want me to touch? You want me to touch you!?"

She slipped off one glove and rushed forward, hand reaching for his forehead. Scott moved only slightly, bending his head to the side, causing her to miss.

"Slow down!" he said.

"No, ya wanted it, ya _take _it!"

Cyclops moved, side-stepping her. He quickly took a few steps away, to create some distance. Rogue turned, her bare hand contorted like a claw. Cyclops rose both hands, indicating his friendliness, hoping she'd stop. She did.

They came to standstill. The entire world seemed to slow down just for their sake and let them stare each other down. Cyclops slouched slightly, letting his tension drop for now, so as not to signal threat.

Seeing him on the defensive, Rogue did. She put her glove back on. Cyclops just seemed to have realized how much of a mistake he had made suggesting his bright idea.

"Ah'm sorry, Scott." Rogue said, "Ah just..."

She leaned against the locker. Cyclops didn't know whether to move or speak or just be still and silent.

"Ah just don't like touchin people no more. Not like this, not to drain them, not to steal from 'em. Ah don't know what possessed me to do that willingly once..."

"That wasn't my intention." Cyclops said, "Fuck, I just thought..."

He couldn't continue. What he intended to say seemed to blindly heartless, too cold. Too professional. Like when he became Cyclops and stopped being Scott Summers, like every time he put the visors on. It gave him freedom to do more of what he liked, set free parts of him that Scott Summers couldn't possess.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. Rogue saw that he was genuinely saddened and immediately regretted her outburst. Why did she have to go and snap at him? He was only doing what he had always done – attempt to do something nice for her, and it was, as always, her. She ruined it every time. Hell, he didn't even expect much in return, that much she knew from the memories she'd stolen from him. He just wanted her to be happier.

"Ah'm sorry." She said, "Tell me, what did ya think?"

"I thought if you trained with multiple powers at once, maybe you'd get used to handling the load. Like weight training, y'know?" –he was so apologetic that it broke her heart- "That you'd get used to it. And if you got used to it, then maybe... you wouldn't lose control again."

"It's... Ah dunno, Scott. What if Ah go berserk in there?"

Cyclops smiled.

"Well... uhh... I think you'll just have to count on us to have your back."

Rogue half-smiled. Cyclops returned the gesture with far more enthusiasm.

* * *

"Alright, whenever you're ready."

She took of her gloves. Her hands were shaking. Psycho-somatic, she knew. Her aphephobia kicking in and her body, always hungering for new sensations, screaming for her to stop. Wasn't so bad that she would break down, but bad enough on its own right.

Didn't help that, apart from Cyclops, all assembled got visibly tense at the prospect of being touched by Rogue.

Jamie first. She knew enough of his power to make sense of it – the mind of Jamie Prime was distributed throughout other Jamies, like multiple generators for the same power plant. She could lighten the load with him.

Contact.

Flash of emotions, half-finished thoughts and simultaneous perspectives balancing one another. The most prominent was a constant apparent, chilling her to the bone. Fear. Almost mindless fear.

Rogue shuddered.

"You okay?" Cyclops asked.

Rogue tried to cradle it, to calm herself. Didn't work. Jamie felt too little in the vast surroundings of the Danger Room, too young compared to his opponent, the fearsome Southern goth, the Rogue, the power-stealer, the soul-thief.

"Ah'm okay." She said, slowly easing into the feeling of being one that can be broken into many.

Next, Amara.

Bobby's presence irritating her – fire and ice, not a good combo. Preferred Boom Boom for the Danger Room (and other rooms as well), or better yet, Sunfire. Feelings, intimate, unexplored and analyzed the living bajeezus out of, shameful secrets and little details crammed into having a crush. Rogue herself would have blushed, had she not pushed these down immediately.

And finally, a small bit of apprehension at the thought that Rogue, upon touching her, would know. Didn't help Rogue that she did indeed know.

Next up, Bobby.

Nervousness expressed to Rogue's touch – thoughts along the lines of, she's cold as ice anyway, why bother with the Iceman? Pride at this little ego-specific remark. Irritation at Jamie's presence, why did the brat have ta come? Why not Kitty? And why _not? _Just because she's a senior and a very beautiful X-Woman didn't mean that she couldn't join the charming Iceman for a session down in the DR!

Rogue passed Bobby by quickly as his deeper thoughts started to give her glimpses of what he thought about after the lights went out.

Cyclops reached forward and gave her hair a brush with his palm, before putting it on her cheek.

His touch felt like going home. She had touched him so many times that she knew what she'd feel and what she'd think in his place.

Worry, like a lighthouse in the middle of a dark ocean, clear and calling.

* * *

"Alright, you ready?" Cyclops asked.

Rogue just replied by producing eight duplicates of herself. Cyclops immediately took a few steps back, shouting for the others to move into formation.

Rogue blasted Jamie with all eight duplicates, sending him flying into the nearest wall. He broke into ten little Jamies, but with the Prime unconscious, the others had trouble maintaining balance. They fell down and disappeared.

Iceman sent a wave towards Rogue, freezing the air between them. Rogue simply put out a hand, palm facing Iceman. Her hand became like magma and melted the ice before it even reached her skin.

Movement out the corner of her eye. Three duplicates turned, one took Rogue Prime out of Cyclops' optic blast and two went to send balls of magma flying at the Iceman; the other two rushed Magma with blasts of ice so cold the air around them was freezing as they ran.

Cyclops felt the impact in his chest, and a rib moved slightly too much. The two Rogues that had their attention on him froze his legs in place and before he could turn, with a well-place precision blast, blew the visor away. Screaming out, he closed his eyes tight.

Magma kept up with the ice-blasts easily, drowning it all with a more furious temperature and keeping the Rogues at arm's length. She rose an eyebrow when the ice wall suddenly stopped and even parted.

An optic blast tore right through that opening and struck her right on the nose, breaking it. She screamed out, holding her nose and the two Rogues assaulted her right in that moment, starting to cool the air down around her. She tried to resist, but the pain was too much – she couldn't keep her grip on how much temperature she was generating, and it was dropping quickly.

Iceman decided to use his ice slide to work his way through and moved, whizzing right by the two Rogues keeping him down. Immediately, Rogue Prime delivered an optic blast, severing his slide. He rolled in mid-air, was about to move when three simultaneous blasts sent him flying to the ceiling. He crashed, hard, felt a rib crack and fell, his fall blocked by nothing.

Amara couldn't even keep the temperature around her hot enough to warm herself – with four Rogues keeping their full attention on her. She lifted both hands up and tried to indicate her surrender. All four Rogues, continuing with their assault, sent her to the floor with a coordinated optic blast. Amara passed out.

* * *

The sudden silence after Amara's moan –cut short-, worried Cyclops to the point where he considered opening his eyes to take a peak. The thought of tearing Rogue apart just by beholding her terrified him, so he draped one arm over his eyes and decided to ask instead.

"What's happening!?" Cyclops asked, trying to wriggle free of his restraints. The ice was weakening, the room temperature melting it away, but it wasn't thin enough just yet.

No response.

The silence absolutely terrified him. Unable to see, he immediately projected his worst case scenario estimate onto his eyelids and beheld the sight of Bobby, Amara and Jamie all dead: mutilated bodies lying in the middle of the Danger Room's debris, with a super-charged Rogue standing there, fists clenched, eyes closed tight. One moment before a meltdown.

"Rogue!?" Cyclops called. No answer. "Jamie!?" Panic, fear rising. His voice grew higher, "Bobby!? Amara!?" A desperate scream, his throat straining in the mere unleashing of it, _"Rogue!?"_

Nothing.

His right leg was released. He slid, pulling a muscle right there, and collapsed. One arm over his eyes, he groped around for his visors. His fingers constantly touched empty space, his perception expanding the ground underneath him. Whenever he was blind, he couldn't help but envision a vast, limitless ground underneath him and a black, impenetrable sky above: both infinities stretching out around him, and he had no bearings... bearings didn't mean anything.

"Fuck!" he cursed, trying to expand his search in a circle so as to actually cover ground, "Fuck! _Fuck!_ I _knew _I shouldn'tve done this, I _knew _it! I _fucking _knew it!"

He kept circling, trying not to deviate too much.

Finally, after what had seemed to him to be hours, he finally managed to score a hit – the back of his hand brushed against something light and the familiar clacking of hardened polymer of his visor filled his ears. Around him, he could hear the others moaning. This told him that it hadn't been that long since he had started to search for the visor – any longer than a few minutes, and a coma would be likely for each and every one of them.

Scott slid on the visor and immediately surveyed the scene.

It was an acceptable, even expected, disaster. Jamie, nursing a wound on his forehead stumbled across into little cracks and craters on the floor, made from being superheated and superchilled in the same instant. A little ways from him was Amara, holding her nose.

"Fnnnk!" Amara's voice came, "Mmm gnnnn knnnn hn whn Mm..." she found that she couldn't complain with a broken nose.

Bobby, far off from the other two, lying on the floor, holding his stomach.

"Bobby, are you okay?" Scott called, standing up.

"_Shit_ no!" Bobby replied, "I think she cracked a rib... or four..."

"Where's..."

Rogue.

She was lying in the middle of everything, the melting puddles of ice, places where the magma eating into the superalloy foundation of the Danger Room floor let out a steady cloud of smoke. Scott rushed to her side.

She was unconscious. He checked for a pulse. She was alive.

"She –arrrggh- wiped the fucking floor with –unnngh- us..." Bobby said.

"We need to move!" Scott said, "Amara, Jamie, get Bobby! Don't move him too much! We need to get to the medical wing!"

No response came.

"Move!" he instructed, and they did.

Scott picked Rogue up and started to carry her in the direction of the exit. His heart was pounding in his ears and all he could think of was how he fucking knew that he shouldn'tve done this.

He just fucking knew it.


	6. Chemicals

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Five: "Chemicals"**

She didn't quite recognize the room, but just had the distinct sensation of having slept there for most of her live. It felt warm, it felt absolutely safe – removed from the rest of the world and tucked away. Familiar. Each piece of furniture and trinket was a piece that she had invested in making it that way.

It carried the sensation of being enwombed.

Sweat on her brow. She wiped it away. She was drenched in it. Figured she'd need a shower, but looking at the bedside clock and seeing that the time was unreadable, she decided against it.

Laughed out loud: it was so late, the clock refused to show what time it was. It was an ungodly hour, clearly.

She looked outside her window and saw nothing but darkness. Absolute. Impenetrable.

Fear crept in, slowly. Her pulse started to race. She knew this darkness. Just looking at it made her feel the wrongness of it, the utter and complete deviance of its existence. Her aversion was primal, instinctive: if she was in the womb, then, that darkness was the world outside. Unknown, full of peril.

"You're safe. I'm safe. It's alright."

The familiar voice calmed her somewhat. Turning to her side, she saw Scott, lying next to her. He was wearing his uniform. His dexterous fingers extended as his bare palm touched her cheek. She froze up, her muscles tensing in anticipation of a physical impact. Nothing happened.

Scott's hand went away.

"You always tense up when I touch you." He said.

"Ah can't help it."

"You won't hurt me."

"It's not just the touch."

"What is it, then?"

"Ah peeked into your mind." Rogue said, "Ah'm sorry... if Ah could make mahself stop, if Ah could just stop absorbin' all that y'are, all that you've been, Ah'll do it... Ah won't take it... but Ah just can't help it!"

Tears. Steady, but too slow. The knot in her chest was too big and the small measure of tears she was shedding didn't help it.

Scott's arms, holding her close. His breath in her hair, his whisper in her ear. He scooted even closer.

The sensation of light-weight synthetic polymer sliding across her skin. He wasn't touching her directly.

She sobbed.

"It's alright." Scott said, "It's alright. You didn't hurt me."

"Ah can't _fucking stop it!_ Whenever Ah borrow your powers, it's like Ah take a bit of your soul... Ah drain you of all y'are and Ah'm more you than me... fuck... _fuck..._"

"Shhh..." his breath, warm, "Shhh... it's alright. I'm safe. It's alright."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is. Look at me. Look into my eyes, if you can."

Rogue looked up. The visor, expressionless, cyclopean, looked back at her. She saw her reflection on the ruby quartz surface. Desperate. Afraid. Little.

"We'll be alright, Rogue."

"It's like what you said... it _is_ like rape." Rogue said, "Every time Ah touch you, every time Ah absorb more, Ah rape you again and again... everything that is you, becomes me."

"What are you so afraid of? That I'll run out of soul?"

"Ah'm afraid that when I take more, you won't have nothin left for yourself, because ya gave it all to me."

He smiled.

"I don't mind." He said.

The knot in her chest. Expanding.

* * *

Rogue jerked awake, the jumble of memories assaulting her conscious mind. Wave after wave of Others screamed at Rogue, some clawing their way to the upper echelons of her mind in attempt to take over. For a brief moment she overflowed with a need to keep her thoughts to herself, lest others would hear it and that Rogue definitely shouldn't not with the way she was chasing after Scott constantly and...

...nausea. Jean's thoughts. Not hers, Jean's. She pressed them down, pushed them into the overbearing clutter within her head and hoped they would fade sooner than others.

But her eyes were open! She had no visor, she should've kept them close – oh hell, who had she murdered this time because every time he opened his eyes every time he looked at something as he was supposed to look something like this happened and he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to and why was it so painful for him to sleep why did his eyes hurt in the mornings it was one of those things how much did the glasses cost anyway and...

...panic. Scott's thoughts. Rogue tried harder to push them away. She filed each and every one under his thoughts, blocked them out as best as she could. She concentrated on her own effort to distinguish herself – she was the one struggling, her thoughts were the ones hell-bent on keeping the Others quiet.

Rogue stood still, expecting Jamie's thoughts, or Amara's, or Bobby's.

Nothing there.

Rogue finally opened her eyes and looked around. The sterile, white surroundings of the medical wing, the sight of the grid cut into the ceiling above. Machines hanging all around her, along with an I.V. that went straight into her arm. Numbness there, along with fatigue. She had been like that for some time, she understood.

The rustle and bustle of cloth by her side, and the familiar huff of Scott Summers stirring from sleep. By reflex, he covered his eyes first but then, feeling the visor there, let his hands fall. He only had to look to see Rogue shift.

"You're awake. Thank God..."

Rogue's jaw dropped. Scott's face... both his cheeks were covered in band-aids and in one case, flat-out bandages. She didn't know what she had done to him, but in that moment, a thousand apologies came to the tip of her tongue. She was about to release at least some of them when Kitty's yawning put paid to that.

"_Thank _Gohaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawdd..._"_

Rogue turned the other way to see her roommate, slumped across another chair. She half-expected a snide comment from Kurt, who, somehow, wasn't there.

Rogue didn't have to judge their reactions to guess that she had been there for some time.

"How long?" she asked.

"Two days." Kitty said, rubbing her eyes, "That was _some_ beating you gave to the others..."

Rogue stared at her for a few seconds, her muddled memory trying to recover what she herself had experienced from a sea of others' memories. When her mind finally managed to, her jaw dropped.

"Threw 'em all a good beat." Logan's voice came, lagging only a second behind the ever-present smoke of his cigar, "Gotta say, Stripe, that was some show you put on there. Almost made me feel damn near invulnerable for havin' taken you down that one time. The count's impressive: concussion and dislocated shoulder on Madrox, broken ribs on Drake, broken nose on Amara and shallow lacerations across Scott's face."

He smiled, one of his rare, warm smiles – unlike his feral, violent grin, this one reminded her of home, or the distinct impression of home she harbored in her head.

The other impression was Scott's brow creasing. Told her he worried. Made him human.

"As for you, Scott," Logan put both hands on Scott's shoulders and gave his sadistic grin, telling all present that he was going to enjoy his next sentence a little too much, "Chuck wants to see you."

Scott sighed and hung his head. Rogue knew the gesture. Meant that he didn't want to. Not because of some stupid stubborn streak, either; Rogue knew enough of Scott to see that he felt guilty of the whole ordeal.

"Gotta go, Rogue." Scott said, one hand gently squeezing hers. The feeling of his gloves, the warmth behind them. She shivered. He smiled. He lingered, almost as if he was holding onto her, and then, left with Logan.

Silence in the room. Kitty, seeing Rogue stare on after Scott, smiled. She had noticed, you know. Everyone knew. In fact, it was absurd they were even making an effort not to tell Jean about it, because, in all likelihood, even Jean knew: and she had to know, what with the way Rogue had treated her right from the off.

But Kitty disliked silences and didn't want to break it by calling Rogue out on her crush. Instead, she decided to share. Rogue listened, Kitty knew that for sure. She just didn't react most of the time, or react in any way that didn't shout that she didn't care.

"Been having the weirdest dream lately." Kitty said. No response. She didn't expect one. Knew that _the Rogue _took a little more prodding than that. So she continued, "Have you ever had the same dream over and over again?"

Rogue felt as if she was doused with ice cold water. She suppressed the reaction and adopted Jean's neutral face, noting the source of the muscle-memory extract with a little apprehension, and turned to Kitty.

"Whaddya mean?"

"Like, it's the same dream every night, or so similar it might as well be the same. Been happening to me lately."

"Whaddya dream about?

"That's the weird part!" Kitty said, blushing slightly, "It's... ummm... Kurt."

"Kurt?" Rogue rose an eyebrow.

"Nothing like _that!"_ Kitty said, defensive, "Nothing weird going on, just... we talk. In some bizarro place, like this castle in the middle of a dark forest or my room back at my parent's house and we just sit around and talk. Lance is there, too. Every time."

"Maybe ya miss him. He's been gone what, a month now?"

"With his folks in Germany, I know. But this isn't like that. I've been having this dream for a while now."

Silence. Awkward.

"So..." Rogue broke it, "What does he do?"

"Who?"

"Lance."

"He just, like, hangs around. Talks to us. Makes comments."

"Like what?"

"Oh." Kitty hushed, biting into her lower lip. Rogue knew enough of her facial expressions to know what _that _meant. Then, Kitty surprised her by saying, "Says he loves me. That he always thought I was cute."

"Kurt?"

"He's the one that always talks about powers and abilities." Kitty said, "It's weird, all he wants to discuss is how my abilities affect me, like they create this massive difference... oh. Sorry."

Rogue marveled at how Kitty could read her reactions based on the most minute of facial tics – her slight curl of the lips, involuntary, had drawn the comment.

"'salright." Rogue said, "Ah'm used to it. Much as Ah can get used to it."

"Ugh, my back..." Kitty said, "So, you need anything? Anything I can do? Cause, if you don't mind, I'm gonna pack it in."

"What time is it?"

"It's... oh, man, it's 10 PM."

"'salright. Ah need to rest a little anyway. Mah head's splittin' still."

"The professor said that could happen." Kitty said, "I'll just leave you. Glad you're okay."

"Thanks, Kitty cat." Rogue said, smiling gently. Kitty giggled. Rogue rose an eyebrow.

"I don't see that very often." Kitty said.

She phased through the floor and then was gone, leaving Rogue to cradle a very real migraine caused by numerous voices shouting in her head.

* * *

She stirred from her sleep at night, eyes opening to the dimmed lights of the medical wing drawing pale shades across the chrome surfaces. Light reflecting off of the drawer handles. Awareness of her body, lying quite comfortably.

If only she didn't have the tail, she'd feel more comfortable on her back, but apparently a bone-like protrusion linked it to her spine and she really didn't wish...

Wait. Rewind. She had no tail.

Kurt's thoughts. Rogue applied the stop-gap and averted the rest, focusing on the here and the now.

Rogue knew instantly that to move an inch spelled disaster; she would never get comfortable again, and sleep would become a chore.

Of course, thinking about it, the first symptom of insomnia showed itself in the form of her body telling her to move her arm a little. Unable to stop herself, she did. The end result was predictable, really; her arm now wouldn't settle for any position, and it was dragging the rest of her body along. She knew where this lead – discomfort with every possible alignment of her limbs and finally, the throwing off of the covers to get up. Another night roaming the mansion.

Maybe she'd go down, to the Danger Room and do a workout. She liked doin' those, nothin' like fresh action to get his

Wait. His? She wasn't a guy.

Logan's thoughts. She pushed them away, along with the bedsheets and stood up. A chill went through her as her bare feet hit the stone-cold floor, but she welcomed the sensation. Some part of her even enjoyed the unpleasant feeling.

The idea remained with her as she started her walk right down the corridor of the medical wing. It was rather chilly there, with nothing on her but the hospital gown. She let her steps take their course, wandering alone in that halfway consciousness of insomnia; never quite asleep, but never awake enough to judge anything. It wasn't until she was standing in front of it that she realized she was headed towards the elevator.

The feeling from the other night returned, full-force. Slammed into her, overwhelming her, and before she could even ponder on it, she had pressed the arrow pointing downwards.

Downstairs? The tactical floor? What for?

A little voice in her head, indistinguishable from the other voices, whispered, Danger Room.

She rose an eyebrow, a semblance of consciousness actually returning to her. It wasn't much, but enough that she could judge the urge. It still felt like Logan's need for physical exercise; she always felt exhausted after draining more than one person. It energized her while she could utilize their gifts, but once that period ended, the depowering period sapped her strength.

Maybe it was the two-day rest. Maybe it was that she wasn't completely awake and was still part-Logan.

The elevator doors.

The reflection in the mirror. Sunken eyes, tousled hair with the white strands still distinguishable, slouched posture. Nothing like the still-somewhat-legendary _the Rogue._

The urge. Go down. Go down. Go down. Broken record need. Go down. Go down. Go down.

She stepped in and went down.

* * *

Once down, she let the thing run its course – she felt that push-pull circadian irrhythmia fill her with both an expandable energy and a need to lie down because she was too sore. Her mind was clouded by the overbearing shadow of physical self-awareness, and she decided that she wasn't going to bother with it. She'd just let her Logan part drive her to whatever it would.

She exercised regularly, because enough physical sensation, enough exertion of her body cleared her mind and leveled her mental playing field. She could then get a much more stable hold on base reality.

Rogue went to the lockers and slipped into her X-Men uniform. Comfortable, synthetic polymer. Silicon based superalloy, soft. It had taken the exact shape of her body after a while, and easily settled like a second skin.

Like the second skin she wished would let her feel more.

It was then that the presence hit her. The distinct feeling that she wasn't alone in the room. There was no sound, no sight and no smell, but Rogue had the distinct impression that she wasn't alone: that undeniable, bare reality of the other, of the non-self in the room.

"Hello?" she called out.

Nobody.

But no, there was somebody there. She tried to guess which of her mental after-images was prompting this: it was often that she thought she saw someone, heard someone, smelled a particular brand of perfume that caused a flood of memories. Sensory deception, sure, but that wasn't anything like it.

If anything, the presence felt... warm. Awakened feelings she had only stolen from others, of safety, of very human types of contact she was incapable of. Broke her heart and piqued her interest: who the fuck was that?

"Hello?" Rogue tried again.

Nobody.

The presence moved. Rogue followed, not wanting to lose the emotion she was leeching off of it. This homely comfort, this sense of familiarity and... regret?

What did she regret? She didn't regret anythin', why the fuck would he regret... No. Logan's thoughts. Rogue pushed them away, struggling to find out which part of what she was feeling came from herself.

She followed the presence down the hallway. Every step stirred new feelings inside her, feelings she didn't know she had. Mixing in with the warm familiarity and regret was now a tint of professionalism. Barely-registered details giving her a sense of knowing every single inch of the hall she was walking down; schematics, blue-prints, calculations, materials, metallurgy, purpose...

Her head was starting to hurt. Through the pain she thought to shape-shift, it always helped a little to assume the physiology of someone else... no. Mystique's thoughts, devious even in that moment of pure pain.

Rogue stumbled, one hand reaching for the wall. A sudden flash of various things, things she couldn't quite catch sent her fumbling towards it. One hand rose to meet the wall. Stood there, barely able to keep standing. It was coming in too fast. Like hearing thousands of songs right out earshot and buried deep within memory at the same time, she couldn't keep up with the pace.

The ground striking her knees. One last thought before feeling the ground slip, change incline and meet her halfway through the fall: that Scott was waiting.


	7. The Scream

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Six: "The Scream"**

The endless meadow, stretching out in all directions. Soft breeze, gently caressing her skin, lining it up with goosebumps. Warmth, and the feeling of his stomach, rising and falling with every breath. His fingers, firm yet gentle, caressing her hair. His presence, the bare reality of him there. Always there, always by her side.

His hand went from her hair onto her shoulder, cupping over it. She shivered, her aphephobia rising. She tensed up. Scott immediately responded by brushing his lips against her forehead. His voice, light as a feather, in her ears.

"Shhh, it's alright."

Rogue looked at him. He still had his visor on and it was impossible to tell where he was looking. The cyclopean eye always seemed to watch her, no matter where she was.

She cuddled up closer to him, pulled him as close as she could. He responded in kind.

Gentle clouds overhead, floating on by.

She knew that he wasn't always watching her. No. But even in those moments where Rogue sat nearby him and Jean, she liked to think, to imagine that he was looking at her instead. Over Jean's shoulder and at her. Made her both nervous and excited. She loved the imaginary attention. She loathed it. She hated being watched, absolutely despised the thought and adored, fucking _loved_ it.

"It's alright. I'm always watching you. I'm always there."

"Ah know. Ah know ya notice. Ah know you pay attention."

"More than that. I watch you. I love the sight of you – it makes me remember that you're real. That you're there."

"Ah know..." she bit her lower lip, "Ah wish Ah was somethin' to look at. Ah wish Ah was..."

"You wish you were what?" he asked, that soft sway of tone that told her, he wasn't trying to pump her for that information but gently lead her by the hand.

"Ah hate mahself." Rogue said, "Ah despise mahself. Ah'm the worst. Ah'm a thief, a taker... Ah'm ugly. Ah'm ugly on the inside and out. Ah'm a degenerate."

"Shush, now!"

He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. She froze up. His kiss felt warm, tender, meant to silence her with the assurance that what she was saying couldn't be further from the truth.

He withdrew after a second or two. Her heart was beating out of her chest.

"Wha…"

"Why are you a degenerate, or a thief, or a... what was it, taker?"

"Scott, half the time, Ah don't even have mah own thoughts! Ah think like you or crave like Logan!"

"I know that. That wasn't what I was asking."

"Ah know..."

"It's alright. I won't run away. I'm here."

She clenched her teeth, but her tongue was eager to let loose the words. She tried to keep them back, but he kept kissing her, landing butterfly kisses all over her face, telling her it was alright, that he was there...

"You know what Ah used to do, all the time, when we were in school? Before we were ousted?"

"No."

"Ah'd touch random people. Ah'd live their lives, see what they had gone'n'done... feel their feelings, see their sights, listen to their music... and sometimes, just sometimes, Ah'd be beautiful. Ah'd look at mahself in the mirror, just that morning and a trillion times throughout their life, and there Ah would be, porcelain skin an' all, with all the clothes Ah'm supposed to wear, and all the friends Ah have that keep telling me, you're beautiful, and Ah know that, Ah know it but..."

She sobbed. Tears. Why was she doing this? Why was it that every time she told him these things, she cried? Was she so utterly incapable of responding in any other way?

"Ah just wanted... Ah just wanted to feel what it was like, if only for that second. To be told that, to be loved, to be held. But Ah can't control it, everythin' else just gets in."

"Y'know, I caught you sneaking a touch to Taryn once."

Her eyes widened. She looked up, and saw the gleaming red of the ruby quartz visor looking right back. Both the visor and his face were smiling.

"You... knew?"

"It wasn't that big a secret. Everyone knew you had made it a habit of actually touching people – the rumors all said different things about why you were doing it, but I knew, yes."

"Ah told you. Thief. Taker. No privacy to them, but all of it to me... this, too. Nobody knows. Nobody knows but you."

"It isn't up to me to judge, or them. Rogue, to touch is a very basic need. It's one of the few things that assure us the others around us are real, that what we are seeing is something malleable, something solid. Without that, without this,"-one hand running through her hair, fingers interlocking with strands, making her shiver all over- "who's to say if it is really here or not?"

"But Ah..."

"No. It's alright. You didn't hurt anyone. They were safe."

"Ah didn't mean to..." sobs, tears, all of it, pouring out, "Ah didn't... didn't mean..."

"Shhh... it's alright. It's alright."

His arms, gentle, strong, surrounding her. His warmth.

Like home.

* * *

Rogue woke up to the smiling face of Charles Xavier. The face she knew to be the face of kindness that helped him thro...

No. Scott's thoughts. Kind, familiar and warm. Why him, she wondered?

It was his warm smile, fatherly and eager. It relaxed her for a split second, before a full recollection of what had happened during the night, along with running commentary from all the screaming voices, flashed before her eyes. Her fear must have been strong enough for the prof to react to it, as he lifted one eyebrow.

To him, her thoughts were screaming.

"No..." Charles said, "Don't do that."

Rogue's fear only increased. Charles rolled his chair back, putting some distance between them. Rogue was panicking steadily, trying to discern how much he knew, how much he had actually heard from her. How much did he know? Did he know her secret? No, think of something else.

"Stop it... Rogue..."

Think of something else, something else, not the presence, not touching almost everyone at school, no, none of that, but something different, like the recurring dream that Kitty shared, or...

"_That's quite enough!"_

Rogue felt her mental processes come to a grinding halt. All the others inside her head shut up, as suddenly as they had started to scream out all the things she didn't want to remember, as Xavier's mental touch stretched across Rogue's mind like a shadow. Everything fell to dead silence as the shadow-mind lingered there, for one precarious second, and slowly receded.

At least it made the others shut up and cleared her head.

"I'm sorry for that." Charles said, rubbing his temples. A few moments of silence, where Rogue became certain that the prof hadn't heard anything through the noise.

He spoke first.

"You never told me it was this bad. Telepathy on a normal day is similar, yes, as people rarely think in fully-formed thoughts or ideas but... _your _mind, on the other hand, is... overcrowded. I couldn't even hear one quarter-complete thought amidst all the others."

"Ah'm sorry." Rogue said, sitting up on the bed. No matter what, she knew how bad it could be – let alone for a telepath who went through that on a regular basis.

"No, it's not your fault." Charles said, cranking his neck, "Although..." Rogue held her breath, "I do have a question."

She was on the verge of breaking down and telling him all about last night. But something inside her, a devious little voice she couldn't quite identify, told her to stay put.

"Even by the most generous account," Charles said, "it just shouldn't be this crowded in your mind, the echoes shouldn't be this many in number. Do I need to know anything?"

She thought it best to tell the truth. Not because he could hear it, he clearly couldn't, but because she wanted to trade in one truth she couldn't tell with one that she could.

"Ah... Ah used ta touch random strangers... back at school."

"Used to?"

"Before Apocalypse. Ah used ta touch someone that caught mah eye, like Taryn..."

"Scott's former love interest?"

"Yeah..."

"Why?"

Rogue bit her lower lip. Drew her knees up closer.

Charles didn't need anything else to understand. It wasn't a surprise, really, he had felt some of her stronger emotions on occasion, but as per his lack of desire to pry, had left it as it was. It didn't seem to complicate things for anyone else but Rogue, and the issue was poignant enough that he felt that he had no right to interfere. As for the larger picture, Charles understood well enough her need for human contact, which would only increase in time.

"I understand." He said, "Well, I thought we could do a session right now. I would normally give you more time to recover, but..."

"You're scared Ah might go off on one?"

"Not quite, no."

Charles smiled warmly. Chilled Rogue to the bone.

* * *

She put on her usual face and told him about the dream, straight up. Told him about Kitty's dream also, that they were along the same lines and both recurring. He seemed oddly disinterested in Kitty's dreams, but Rogue was just glad that he wasn't going to stay on that topic. Last night had been strange enough without Kitty cat in the mix.

"Hm." Charles said, "There is something quite odd about this. I have seen, studied and even have had recurring dreams, but usually, there is no change in context or events. The dream just loops, but in your case... circumstances, your environment, everything changes. The only constant seems to be Scott's presence." He smiled, "Which is easy enough to explain."

Rogue just looked at him. Thought he'd see through her glare and understand what she wanted to tell him.

He already knew, so he let her assume she had had to make him understand and left it at that.

* * *

After the professor left, Rogue quickly pulled on the clothes he had brought her. He had made sense: her dark gray chinos and a surprisingly compatible, light blue-on-black checkered shirt, short-sleeved. Her black flats. Must have been a lukewarm day outside. She got dressed and went up, itching to grab a hold of her mp3 player and create a soundtrack for her thoughts, if only just to organize them around something she was comfortable around.

As the elevator ascended, she felt as if she hadn't seen the actual mansion in forever.

Once she was there, she didn't feel anything but relaxation. Warm, bright light bled through the windows and for a moment, dazzled her. Giving a half-smile's tribute to it, she heard the sounds from the outside: again, the shrieks, screams and mock protests of glee. Mutant powers given free reign, and a bundle of fucking laughs as a bonus.

Rogue went up to her room.

She found Kitty on her laptop, typing away furiously. She seemed so intent on the task that Rogue didn't know whether to greet her or not. Decided it'd be best not to disturb the flow of her key-demolishing.

Rogue hadn't taken two steps towards her half of the room when Kitty finally let out an exasperated grunt. Rogue knew that little sound – she sometimes employed it herself, unconsciously. She almost spoke out, asking Kitty what was wrong, but remembered, she didn't have to.

"Why is Lance such an idiot?" she said, "I keep telling him that it's the better thing to do, but nooo, he just can't tear away from his roots, can he, Mister Brotherhood! Ugh!"

She shook her laptop as if she wanted to shake the hardware loose.

Rogue didn't say anything. She proceeded to fumble around her mess of a room-half for her mp3 player.

"I just don't know why he wastes his time hanging out with like a bunch of juvenile delinquents in a rundown old house when he could be here, with us! We always have to meet on Neutral Ground, that's what _Queekseelver _calls it, apparently – streets of Bayville. We can hardly like get to sit on a park bench without someone whispering,"-voice shifting to the best imitation of a hoarse whisper-"_Mutie! Mutie!_"

Rogue found what she was looking for and lingered, aimlessly, and started to untangle the headphones. Heaven alone knew how these things even got that tangled up just sitting there by themselves.

"I mean, is it too much to ask for a little tolerance on his part? Cyke isn't the most difficult guy to hang with and-"

"Cyke?"

"Cyclops."

"He has a name, y'know."

"Yeah, but I like Cyke better. It almost sounds like a name." Kitty smiled, leaning back, "Like Rogue."

Kitty realized what she was implying a full minute of apologies before Rogue even had an inkling of what her roommate was sorry for.

Rogue really wouldn't mind. It wasn't like she remembered her own name or anything.

* * *

After letting Kitty vent off her last bit of anger, Rogue proceeded downstairs and went straight out. Of course, the front yard was a merry-go-round of mutant gifts. The more destructive-yet-fun ones, like Tabitha's, Jubilee's and Alison's were on display. Rogue froze up right after getting out of the door. The calmer days were replete with small bits of collateral damage from their well-meaning power trips, and she didn't want to get caught in the crossfire in this rather excited day. If she did, however, he could always teleport and... no. Kurt's thoughts.

Of course, upon seeing her, the entire crowd stopped dead and fell silent. Rogue felt all eyes on her and shirked for a moment, but then decided to put on the façade of carelessness to make it through. The Rogue wouldn't give a fuck. The Rogue they knew wouldn't give a fuck, and so wouldn't she.

But, she did. Every step through that crowd of stares –admiring, scared, cautious, inquisitive, curious- took her deeper into her sense of detachment. She left them behind and when they were sure she was far enough that she wouldn't be offended by their actions, they promptly picked it right up.

She sat down on her usual spot in the gazebo. Behind her, far and wee, were the sounds of their happiness. In her hands, the entangled cords of the headphones. In her head, thoughts of yesternight.

Maybe she should just multiply, be at three places at once and then... no. Jamie's thoughts. Not her own.

She put the headphones on and blocked out one more sensation from the world – the sense of the others, far off and happy. It didn't make one lick of difference, anyway, she couldn't go along with their games. She didn't have any real powers, not unless she touched one of them. But they knew, all of them – knew that the Rogue came at night and took your memories, your secrets. Your crushes, whom you thought about when you bit into the pillows at sleepless nights to keep your roommate from waking up, private moments of your parents, your intimate joys and sorrows. The Rogue took and the Rogue knew.

Closing her eyes, she let the music take over. Drifted.

The breeze flowing through the gazebo formed goosebumps on her skin and she welcomed the touch.

* * *

Familiar touch across her cheek, the back of his hand, brushing against her skin. So familiar that it almost didn't register in her mind. Yet, the flash of fresh emotions, like guilt and worry and buried underneath it, affection and care startled her. The colors of grey. She knew who it was. She took off her headphones and sat up, prompting Scott to sit next to her.

He wasn't wearing his normal glasses. Instead, he had his visor on. Wind made him shiver and she knew, from his touch, that he hurt. His face hurt, and worse yet, he couldn't shave. He hadn't been able to sleep much because every time his cheek hit the pillow, he hurt.

Moment of silence. Comfortable, yet tense.

"How are you feeling?" Scott asked.

"Okay, Ah guess. Ah think Ah'm doin' better than you."

He smiled, an expression that immediately melted into a grimace.

"Ah'm sorry, Scott." Rogue said.

"You apologize too much." Scott replied, trying to smile again, much to the same effect, "It's not your fault. I am the one who should apologize. I'm the one who fucked it up. Couldn't protect the others, couldn't even protect myself in the middle of it – worse, I put you in a place you shouldn'tve been in. If it weren't for me, none of this," he pointed to his face, "would have happened."

"No." Rogue said, unable to look into his visor, that always seemed to watch her no matter what she did, "No. Ah didn't have control. Ah didn't have enough resistance. Ah should have been... better." She chuckled bitterly, "And to think, after all that practice Ah've had, Ah still can't control this."

Scott sighed and leaned back, his elbow brushing against her arm. She shivered at the contact, but it didn't produce anything. Just thoughts swimming under the surface. She knew that gesture: leaning back, head cocked upwards and thus began Mister Summers' Staring Contest with the Ceiling. She had to break the contact by using something, anything she knew, like causing the door to sl... she couldn't. There was no door. And she certainly wasn't Jean Grey.

But with the Miss Perfect echo, came all of her emotions. Looking at Scott, tearing at himself with his over-zealous guilt and volatile self-loathing, she felt nothing but the desire to run her fingers through his hair and tell him, it wasn't as bad as he thought it was. That's what Jean would have done. Jean knew all the right things to say, so Rogue knew them as well.

But the Rogue wouldn'tve said anything. So she didn't. She let him sit there, thinking up of new ways to apologize.

"Listen," Rogue said, "This ain't exactly mah way of puttin' it, and ya know who it belongs to, so... This ain't as bad as you think it is. Sure, shit went down, no arguments there, but nobody died. If anythin, Logan's pleased that Drake finally had something knock him down a notch. Maybe it'll teach Jamie some caution, Ah don't know – point is, it can all work out. Ya _know _it will."

"But I..."

"Not done here, sugah." Rogue said, "Yeah, you instigated it, but what about me? Didn't _Ah_ agree to it? Didn't Drake?"

"That's not..."

"It's not? Ah thought everybody volunteered for your experiment, so how the fuck're you the only one ta blame? Huh, Summers?"

Scott rose an eyebrow and shot her what she thought was a sideways glance. He then started to laugh, often stopping to grimace or clench his teeth, but still, it was a laughter that elicited half a smile from Rogue.

Smiling, Scott said, "You're right, that's not your way of putting it. You lifted that word-by-word, too."

"Ah did?"

"Yeah."

"Ah just thought... about what'd... have the best impact and..."

Scott's brow creased. That cute little brow that she adored, that she... no, that hadn't been her, that'd been Jean. But hadn't she? Hadn't she caressed and kissed and leaned against that brow many times? Hadn't she done that? Didn't she...

Yes, Rogue heard a voice tell her, after all, he knows you better than anyone ever has or ever will.

So she relaxed, her final reservations drowned out by the sickly-sweet Jean Grey in her head, and Rogue reached out to Scott. She wrapped her arm around his, interlocking her fingers with his, and leaned against him, one hand brushing against his cheek.

"Rogue what..."

Lips sliding against his cheek. Affection, lust, the actual ecstasy of skin against skin... she closed her eyes.

Scott choked.

"What're... wha... Ro... Rogue..."

Why was he whispering _her_ name!? What the fuck was his problem anyway, why did he like that little rogue so much? What did he see in the company of that goth?

Lips on lips. His scent, strong, pleasant, in her nostrils, filling her body with much-needed sensations barely there. Memories awakening, and some falling asleep, race to full pulse on and his breath against hers...

Scott's body growing limp snapped her back to attention.

Like surfacing after a deep dive, she suddenly became very aware of a barely-breathing Scott summers pressed up against her.

The Rogue, reclaiming the driver's seat and looking on ahead.

Panic.

She screamed her lungs off as she kicked Scott away. He slumped across the seat and then fell onto the ground, as she, struggling, a mess of limbs and no coordination, fell also.

Rogue looked at him, pale, lying there, broken, drained and did what she could. She screamed for help.


	8. Holier than Thou Approach

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter 7: "Holier than Thou Approach"**

It took the others inside of two minutes to hear the scream and come along. Upon seeing Scott, a further three minutes were wasted trying to figure out what to do, two of which was divided between trying to ascertain how bad he was and eliciting a response from Rogue. Five minutes from the gazebo to the mansion, a further four to get down and two more before Scott was in the infirmary and under Henry McCoy and Jean Grey's care.

It took Jean five minutes of tending to Scott to lose her temper and rush out of the infirmary, leading to a solid minute of Hank stringing up all the curses he knew together, along with archaic ones. That particular minute was all it took for Jean to find enough space to rush through and she cleared the distance leading to Rogue in approximately two minutes. She remained there, not only speaking whatever came to her mind, but she psychically reinforcing the meaning behind every treat, insult and furious expression with a projected image for at least ten minutes. It took the arrival of Charles Xavier and a very strong mental shut-down command to stop her at her tracks.

It had Charles Xavier just ten minutes to reach Rogue, and it took ten seconds to try to reason with Jean, three to threaten her, and two to actually make her lose consciousness. A solid minute contemplating the use of his own gifts was then interrupted by a traumatized Rogue's emotions hitting him hard. He then spent five seconds to pry into her mind out of necessity. Then, he disappeared for the next four hours, into his study to sort out what he had extracted and to nurse a splitting headache.

It took Logan about two hours to get wind of what was happening on account of having wandered into a random Bayville pool hall for an afternoon of beers, two cigars and a half-baked fight with a resident tough-guy/straight-edger who seemed to think pool hall tap-draft didn't count as booze and have had one too many.

At the end of the two hours, there were two infirmary rooms, one with Scott hooked up to whatever they could hook him up to, and another with Rogue, whom had had enough tranquilizers to put down Wolverine. The difference between two rooms, as apparent to Logan, was that Rogue only had Kitty and himself while Scott's room had a variety of visitors.

Logan looked at Kitty with a measure of amazement. He could wrap his head around why he was there: it didn't take much of a mental leap to see the connection between him and the Rogue. That was why they had stuck together while they were on the run.

Looking down at the girl he had nicknamed Stripe, Logan knew why. They were both outcasts, out of touch with the norm. What others took for granted had been lost in the shuffle some time ago, and they had never gotten it back. Something was so completely fucked up in them and it couldn't be put right again – like how he couldn't stomach being in the institute or around people in general after a while.

He felt that he had endured the worst that the homo sapiens had to offer with the Weapon X program. But _this._.. having claws and an indestructible skeleton to help him out of many a rough patch was one thing, being completely unable to perform a basic human function was another thing entirely.

* * *

Logan was the one who spoke first.

"Can't imagine..." he said, "Stripe bein' as popular as Slim over there."

The ice-breaker sentence worked it's magic and Kitty's tongue got loose.

"No, she totally isn't. Scott's all... surface. Obvious. He's like, up-front and transparent. I heard Kurt say that should the window ever break, we could just use Scott instead."

Logan smiled. The elf always had had a way with words.

"She's a lot harder to get to know. She puts you to shame, Mister Logan." Kitty said, "Least I know you care and stuff. Can't say that with her. Can't say anything for sure. She digs her music and all her weird goth stuff, that I know. And she digs Scott too, although I'm not supposed to know about it..."

Crease of worry on her brow.

"You... won't tell them, right?"

Logan grinned.

"No. I won't."

"Phew. Don't wanna invoke the wrath of the Rogue."

"Why call her like that?"

"Like what, with the 'the'? That's the name others picked out." Defensive posture, the smell of slightly heightening adrenaline gland function, "I didn't make it up. That's what they say, though."

"What's it supposed to mean?"

"Do you know her name, Mister Logan?"

"Nobody does. No paper trail. No government footprint. She's just... a Jane Doe."

"Yeah, so, one day, we were..." Logan blocked out the details immediately and picked back up when Kitty returned to the actual topic, "...and Tabitha said she had felt Rogue touch her once, at school. You can imagine what came next."

"Lotsa heads noddin' in agreement."

"Thing is, though... I did catch her sneaking a touch to people more than once. She's my roommate, so she'd touch me too. Every once in a while, like, this little, itty bitty brush. Like, back of her hand or a bare elbow as she brushed past. But enough times. She was doing it."

"What next?"

"Of course everyone started to argue about how much she knew about us." Kitty glanced down at her roommate, seemingly sound asleep, "That's why she didn't really have a name. She's the Rogue – she comes, touches you, and steals everything you are."

"What do you mean, steals?"

Kitty looked at Logan. Could he be trusted with this little tidbit of information? Another lingering look, which alerted Logan, helped Kitty decide. Definitely.

"Like, you know she knows how to handle a motorcycle."

"Yeah." Logan smiled, "She sure can."

"Where'd she learn?"

Silence.

"You mean..."

"Yeah." Kitty said, sighing, "She knows how to do that because you do. Like, I caught her singing in the shower once, phased right through the door and didn't notice it was closed... she was in the process of having her voice go off-key in a long note. My favourite song, and I _always_ screw it up on that long note."

Logan looked at Rogue. He had never believed that she had been that desperate. He knew that Rogue had an eagerness to share, but her upbringing made it impossible for her to admit it openly. It was some stranger rapport she had established with Scott that allowed her, always, to say what was on her mind to Slim. To Slim and nobody else.

He had a pretty good idea why.

The sound of the other room's door slamming. The scent of Jean, and the way her regular choice of deodorant reacted with her temper. A problem for later, a problem for the micro-managers of their little ant farm to manage.

"She is looking for something she can't easily find." Logan said, "That's not an excuse as to what she did, no. But it makes sense."

"What?"

"Somethin' about human contact, 'bout skin-on-skin that seems to calm people. Simple things, like..." stumbling through thoughts, too violent, too dark and too out of context for Kitty to understand, "...throw me a bone here, half-pint."

"Umm... like, a... a hug, maybe?"

"Exactly. Like a hug. A punch. Pat on the back. Hand on the shoulder. Other things..."

"Like what?"

"Like uhh... okay, forget that part. Point is, we need it. You need it. Even I need it sometimes. But she can't have it. Even when she can, even when somebody like Summers over there is daring or stupid enough to ignore the obvious, she can't have it like us. Not carefree. Not even scot-free."

"Or Scott-free." Kitty said, one eyebrow raising hopefully. It didn't quite get the chuckle from the now-dead-serious Wolverine, but earned a slightly amused sigh.

"Or Scott-free. But it's our passport to connecting with others."

Kitty didn't say anything, figuring that he wasn't quite done.

"I was like that. I am like that. Whatever it is that makes you, the elf, Jeannie and Chuck get close to people, I lack that. She lacks it, and to top it off, she just flat out can't."

"Why are you telling me this, Mister Logan?" Kitty asked.

"Look around, half-pint. You're the only one, besides me, who sees the two victims in this mess."

* * *

Jean felt that strange presence she felt whenever the professor gently nudged her in a direction he desired; whenever he felt that a small, lightweight brush of his psychic force could be justified by the end result. It was never more than just a slight nudge, a simple urge that, out of the blue, prompted her to do something. Easy enough to ignore or to bypass, but in that moment, she yielded. She headed to the professor's office, knowing that she'd have to have a serious discussion with him sooner or later, and given the circumstances, she thought sooner would be better.

Her anger was overshadowed by her fear for Scott's life, and even then, only briefly. Her anger rose to the surface once more and consumed everything else.

That bitch.

That was just about the only expression she could find that satisfied her to the fullest possible extent – that bitch.

But Jean swallowed the expression, she swallowed all that she could and saved it for the professor. She sat down on an armchair and started to wait.

* * *

Charles sighed. Sitting before his office's double doors and seeing that the intricate embellishments on the wood didn't offer any distraction at all, he prepared himself. He could feel the electric taste of stray thoughts dispersing, each and every single conceptualization of abstracted mental image charged with emotion.

It irritated him especially when the emotion was illogical, relentless, desperate anger.

Pushing the doors open with a slight telekinetic suggestion, Charles rolled his wheelchair into the room, feeling like he was walking into a trap.

And there Jean was.

The term "Fiery Redhead" would pretty much apply, Charles noted with mild amusement.

She rose to her feet and put both hands on her hips. Charles knew the gesture: a subconscious reaction to his disability. She claimed higher ground, as if it would help her case.

"Jean..."

"Why isn't she being controlled?" Jean asked, "Why the hell isn't she in the cells!?"

"Because what she needs is help, not punishment."

"That isn't an excuse. You know what she did! Even before this, even before Scott's life was on the line, _you know what she did!"_

Charles could feel the beginning of a headache.

"I do. I'm not saying it should be taken lightly, but..."

"You're damn right it shouldn't!"

"Jean, if you are going to take that tone..."

"I'll take whatever tone I feel is necessary for you to stop it with your father-figure _bullshit_ when..."

"If you can't keep a civil manner, then this conversation is..."

"Hah! We've only just begun!"

"That is quite enough!" Charles rose his voice. He bit his tongue before he could say what was lingering on his tongue in that moment. It wouldn't be becoming, and yes, there was a rather strong headache creeping across his skull. He didn't want to act irrationally, or do something he would later regret.

The silence seemed to have provoked Jean to calm down somewhat. Her overbearing psychic presence retreated slightly.

"I know why you're concerned. It's going to be alright. Scott hasn't been harmed that much, his mind is far from gone or even close to comatose, he is just asleep. Not much physical harm is done."

"Not much!?"

"His condition is roughly the equivalent of having done intensive weight training for an extended period of time. Muscle fatigue. That is all."

"That doesn't..."

"Jean, there are a variety of measures that can be taken to minimize the damage Rogue can cause. I simply didn't think it was necessary to employ any of them when there wasn't any damage done."

"Now that there is," Jean continued, calming down further and letting Charles breathe a little easier, "what are you going to do?"

"I will do nothing." Charles said, nursing his temples. His head was throbbing, "Not at first. While Scott was just physically injured, Rogue was effectively even more traumatized than she was when this happened. I will need to take care of her mental wounds first."

"Then?"

"If I succeed, we'll see."

"Professor, why don't you just... you know..."

Charles glared at Jean. Disbelief at what she was suggesting threatened to overshadow his normally analytical distance.

"No, and I am appalled that you would so casually suggest it. I will not. You see, your experience in telepathy is mostly involuntary and you scarcely had to use it against anyone. I, on the other hand, have done that enough times, if only against my brother, to know how intrusive it is. It is not something to be taken lightly."

"Puh-leaze... You do it all the time. You make us do things, make receptionists nicer, you made me..."

"I merely suggested it. You were the one who made the choice." Charles said, "And this is not a debate on the ethical implications of telepathy, and if it is, it won't be for long."

They remained in silence, facing each other down. Once or twice Charles felt the touch of Jean's mind through the pain, but it receded as soon as it reached out and he couldn't get a hold of her.

Silently, they fought.

Charles won.

"Have it your way." Jean said, "But you know I will not be held responsible for what I will do to her if she does anything else to Scott."

"Duly noted. Now may I please have some privacy? I have a splitting headache, quite a lot of psychic echoes to sort through, and you are certainly not helping with the push-pull of your emotional turmoil."

Jean stormed out of Charles' office, leaving him to reach for the painkillers he kept in his desk drawer and wonder if Hank may have a point, after all.


	9. At the Border of My Nation

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter 8: "At the Border of My Nation"**

The cold feeling of the shore. Beyond the vision of it, beyond the sight the crystal-clear, elusive and endless water crashing against the rocks a little ways below, the feeling of the shore. Memories half-forgotten and only half hers, things experienced by many different selves melting into a singular point.

The warm presence she recognized always, standing next to her.

She looked at him and almost broke there and then. He was wearing that sweater she had gotten him last Christmas – the one he wore whenever he wanted something to pair up with his brown khakis or his grey jeans. There he stood, smiling warmly, like he always did. She always dreamt of him like this – with her, ready to listen to hear, ready to share... to connect.

To touch and feel.

"Something's wrong." He said, approaching her. She took a step backwards. His face, that gorgeous face, stood still. His brow creased, indicating his worry. "Something's bothering you. Tell me."

"Ah finally did it." She said, a knot in her chest, "Ah took it."

"Took what?"

"You. Ah took _you _away."

"But I'm here. With you. It's alright."

A moment of silence. Rogue averted her gaze. She didn't want to look at him, knew that if she looked, she'd lose herself again in the wanting of him. She knew he wasn't real. She knew he had never been real – just a part of himself that he had left in her, his honesty. His kindness. Scott-by-Rogue.

She couldn't stand him now. She couldn't stand to stand in this shore, with what once was Scott-by-Rogue, because she suspected, it was more of Scott than she ever felt she could be with.

"If you took me, then I am a part of you. I make you, in a way."

"Ya don't define me."

That wasn't exactly true, but in that moment, Rogue could believe it – all she had to do was repeat it enough times.

"No. But I define myself like you define yourself – pieces on pieces on pieces. You don't get to finish the puzzle with just your own pieces, you need mine also. Mine and that of others."

"Y'know what the prof said once? Said that muscle-memory cut deep, deeper than regular mem'ries. He said it wasn't just experience, that it was somethin more. That if Ah was brushin' mah hair like Kitty or singin like Jean or dancin like Kurt, it meant that Ah took too much of theirs. He said, mah mind was tryna compensate for the line between me and them by doin a mix-and-match."

"You were so very brave." He said, smiling, "Never letting any of this on. Never telling anyone."

The knot. There. Expanding.

"No! Don'tcha get it!? Ah was one piece this person, one piece that person... and now, Ah'm startin' to be just one of them. Not all, just one. This one random person, could be anybody, Ah could be anybody. Ah'm..."

"We're all a patchwork of our surroundings, Rogue. We tack on this posture, that piece of lingo, that shirt that he wore, the music that she loved... it goes on. It's no different than the bits and pieces of people. We collect habits, pieces of others and we string them up to become who we are."

"No! No! Not for me! Not now, not ever!"

"Why not?"

"_Because Ah was never me, Ah was always, always everybody!_"

Tears. Free.

The knot in her chest, choking her.

"Rogue..." he reached out to touch her. She drew away. Not now. She couldn't do it now.

"No." she said, still crying.

"It's alright. You won't hurt me."

"Ah already have."

She turned away. She didn't want him there, didn't want him to see her like this. She braced herself, trying to cover up. Felt naked, exposed. She could feel him behind her, reaching out. To touch her, to embrace her.

She couldn't. Felt that she had no right to, felt that if she did, she'd end it then and kill him. Keep the most of him, locked in her head, stolen from everyone.

The reality of him, in her mind. Not Scott-by-Rogue, not some echo. Him. In a way, in some shape or form. Just him.

His arms pulled her in. Her body, her mind, both screamed for more the sensation. More. More. More! More! _More! MORE!_

"Ah can't." she said, taking a step away and escaping the embrace, "I'll hurt ya."

"No. I'm safe." He said, taking a step forwards, "You're safe. You're not going to hurt me. I'm with you now."

She bit her lower lip. Every time, every single time, it came to this. The damn words. _You're not going to hurt me._

She knew. Maybe not directly but... maybe...

"It's alright." Scott said.

She looked at him. He was there, wasn't he? He was by her side, one way or another... and he wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid to make contact, not scared to make a connection.

Just connect... that was all she needed. Just to connect.

Just this once?

Sensing it, he came closer. She didn't move away.

His hand, cupping her cheek.

"Rogue..." he whispered.

She almost heard him whisper her real name.

* * *

The feeling of waking up only sank in when she could think her own thoughts rather than someone else's. She hated waking up that way, unable to find the dividing line that the professor was always so keen on reminding her about. It didn't end with the line, she had to acknowledge it. Of course, Scott's waking thoughts weren't exactly...

No. Stop. For the love of fuck, stop.

Jean's thoughts.

Rogue shivered and suddenly had that sensation of being completely awake in an instant: her body tensed up, ready to strike, to lash out at a moment's notice. The suddenly oppressive feeling of the sheets, trapping her. Kicked them off, and felt the chilly air of the room slide across her skin, making her shiver.

The warm, alien feeling of the IV needle. Sedatives, most likely. But why would they...

Memories came rushing back into her conscious mind, tearing through the idle chatter of the psychic after-images. The levy broke and there she was, lying in a hospital bed, broken.

Rogue spent the next hour trying to get the looping memory to stop. It wasn't just Scott she was draining; in that repeating moment, the raw memory of Cody Rogers and Scott overlapped and became one. In the chaotic, breathless depths of that particular moment, thousands of others, voluntary and not, accident and intended, came rushing to the background, to squeeze into whatever gap was left of them.

Minutes trickling down the hourglass like eternities.

More voices, more memories of snuck touches and stolen minds – rising, piling up on her.

Drowning, breathless, below.

Rogue reached for the IV needle. Pain would do her good. Give her grounding. Her healing factor would take care... no. Logan's thoughts, distinct and dilemmatic: both without a care and shivering in anticipation of the pain.

Two fingers on the needle, she pulled it upwards, shifting the sharp end within her flesh, digging deeper. Her hand contracted, starting to shake as her muscles tightened around the wound. She didn't let her grip loose, she wriggled the needle around, clenching her teeth. It traveled across her arm and spread out, wave after wave crashing.

Pain. Delicious. Real.

_Hers alone._

* * *

After awhile, the needle lost it's novelty, so, with bitterness at what Scott-by-Rogue would say, she pulled it out. Took a few minutes for the blood to stop flowing, and then the pain could only be invoked if she flexed her fingers. Flexing them constantly to keep a steady ache going, Rogue slowly relaxed, settling into the familiar surroundings of the medical wing.

Found that she had kind of gotten used to this place.

Looking to the adjacent room, she saw Jean's sleeping form. Her red hair scattered around her face and neck, one hand against her cheek. On her lap, a book, probably one of those neurobiology manuals she was so fucking into.

Rogue knew that it was because she hoped to discover something she could link to telepathy. She knew, because Jean knew.

Her eyes traced Jean's hair and the bed sheets to find Scott. Lying there, face to the ceiling, with his visor secured firmly on his face. Nothing more, not even an IV far as she could see.

Ache in her chest, residue of the dream-knot.

Forgiveness? Out of the question. Not until she made sure she had suffered enough for it.

Looking at her bedside, she saw that they had left her sweats, neatly folded, for her to wear.

The urge emerged instantly, hitting her so hard that she almost rushed out of the room. It was two-fold: the desire to go out and go to the tactical floor, to follow the elusive presence that was making itself known again, and the feeling that the closer Jean Grey was, the more trouble it would be for her.

So Rogue decided to follow this wherever it would lead. It was getting tiresome anyway, following something that only emerged whenever it felt like it – might as well see it through to the end.

She got dressed, feeling self-conscious with a telepath next door. The feeling that Scott was watching her, through the corner of his cyclopean visor, was equally strong.

If only... but not right now.

* * *

Rogue crept out of the room, and as she did, the presence appeared on the very periphery of her preternatural awareness – in the distance, the familiar and elusive, playful and serious wandered. It was going in a particular direction, just like last time, and Rogue, after it and down the hall.

The feeling she had gotten the first time around returned at full-force and the sense of familiarity overtook her. As she walked, passing by the corridors she had learned to trace in order to wreck her body in intensive training sessions, she felt that she was retracing the already-taken steps of another. Sometime, somewhere, someone had walked this way.

And he hadn't been alone.

Rogue couldn't explain any of it – how she knew it was a he, how they had gone down this road before and how...

...there was something new. This wasn't just retracing the steps to an event – this was reflection. Reflection on whatever this echo wanted to show her, and the regret that came with it. It overshadowed her own regrets, but those could wait. After all, she had all the time in the world for her own regrets and this, this ghost of a memory, this psychic after-image held more importance.

Rogue implored deeper into what it felt like. It was a jumble of emotions, every single one eliciting a different response from a different echo inside her head.

It was getting harder to keep track of where she was going or what she was doing. Every step triggered a new memory, every memory a new echo, every echo a new set of thoughts and idiosyncrasies. Step by step by step, her own self, the Rogue, was being eaten away, devoured bit by bit.

She leaned against the wall, trying to breathe.

Felt exhausted. Wanted to return to the bed. Maybe she'd just teleport... no. Kurt's thoughts.

If she could only rest for a moment, her healing factor would... no. Logan's thoughts.

_Follow the trail._

She could smell it in the air, long forgotten, but the pheromone-based scent of a woman was rich and... no. Sabertooth's thoughts.

_Go._

Rogue moved, along with every single echo. It felt like she was taking a step forward with a thousand others, each one mirroring her actions.

Still, it beat getting stuck on the slow, slow time of the real world where... no. Quicksilver's thoughts.

_Just a little further._

But to go any further would risk everything and Charles Xavier couldn't be trusted with the humanists... no. Magneto's thoughts.

Rogue tried to see.

But she had to close her eyes! Her visor wasn't even there, there was nothing... no. The warm touch of Scott's thoughts.

"Fuck..." she moaned.

Yes, why not, it's a normal bodily impulse, that was what was explained to her. Birds and the bees, a little on the technical side. But still she... no. Jamie's thoughts, shy and immature.

"I can't..."

Step. Step. Stumble.

Fall.

Primal fear at the thought of phasing right through the floor and onwards, onwards until... no. Kitty's fears.

_You're there._

* * *

Rogue looked up, the echoes receded. It was like a blindfold being taken away, slowly.

She was on her knees, in front of the main access console of Cerebro.

The after-shocks of her headache, lingering.

"What... the fuck am Ah..."

_Access it._

The voice was new. It seemed to be her own voice, reciting a command, from her mind to her body. Her own thoughts?

Was that even possible now?

Rogue got to the chair and sat, panting. Her head was spinning slowly, a sense of vertigo, slowly lessening, kept her from doing anything for a few moments. Then, she put fingers to keys ad immediately, wall-embedded screen lit up.

"What now?" she asked herself.

The feeling returned. The presence, the echo, whatever the fuck it was, wanted her to know something. It was excited, and so was she.

The echoes were dead silent. It frightened her a bit, as they had scarcely ever been this docile.

_Search for it._

"For what?"

_You know._

"Ah don't know, what should Ah search for?"

Then, her own thoughts, or what she thought were her own thoughts answered. She called up Cerebro's internal search engine and typed in **Xavier Files Database.**

A click and a minute of a slowly rotating X-shape cursor later, Rogue faced a screen.

**XAVIER FILES DATABASE**

**Omega Level Clearance Required.**

**Username:_**

**Passcode:_**

Rogue put her fingers on auto-pilot. Whatever had driven her there, it seemed to know. She was even more surprised to learn what the username was: **Professor_X. **And the passcode: **Xavier-Magnus_ Epsilon/Omega.**

Facing the screen, Rogue felt the presence recede. It was done. This was what she had been looking for.

Having her own thoughts led her further. Maybe this was why she was so prone to injury the last couple of days. Maybe this was why she was in the infirmary, once again – not because she was injured, but so that she could be near Cerebro, could be near.

But why? What was in the file?

There was one way to learn. Rogue accessed the Xavier Files.


	10. False Affection, False Creation

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Nine: "False Affection, False Creation"**

Her eyes traced the words across the screen. It seemed to be a vast, dense list. Nothing fancy, no presentation, no warning, just a gigantic wall of text. This was why she had ended up hurting Scott? The knot in her chest threatened to return, but she dismissed it for the time being – no mind could be spared for her regrets. What was this?

She searched for a sorting mechanism, something to put it into perspective. Found that she could sort the list by Names (Ascending and Descending), Codenames, Place of Origin or Current Residence (Nearest to Furthest and vice-versa), Power/Threat Level or Affiliation. Or, she could search for something specific.

Looking at the list, she saw that each entry had an attached document, marked as **Xavier File** and a number to go with it.

She started reading random things on the list to start: Absalom, Adam X, Boost, Omega-level, Epsilon-level, Byron Calley, Amara Juliana Olivia Aquilla...

Wait. Magma?

Rogue read the row. Amara Juliana Olivia Aquilla, Codename Magma, born in Nova Roma, currently residing in The Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Lambda-level Mutant with a High Threat Rating, affiliated with the X-Men.

A chill traveled down Rogue's spine and she wondered why. This was ordinary, she knew that there was a database of each and every one of them. Their little stint with Arcade during the unauthorized party, which had allowed Mystique's break-in had let them know. Then why was she so nervous?

She looked at other names, just to be sure. There were those she recognized, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Robert Drake, and then, those she didn't know at all, like Kevin Ford, Sean Cassidy, Neena Thurman.

The affiliations list was even weirder. X-Men, Academy of Tomorrow, Magneto's Brotherhood and city-based Morlocks, along with unaffiliated... Bayville Morlocks, Brooklyn, New York...

Sudden urge to search for one particular item.

And there it was. Her own file.

She opened it, and before her was an enhanced list, along with several official photographs.

**Name: Unknown**

**Codename: Rogue**

**Birthplace: Unknown, presumed to be Caldecott County, Mississippi**

**Current Residence: Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters**

**Power Level: Lambda to Omega**

**Threat Level: Moderate to Extremely High**

**Affiliation: X-Men (past affiliation, Brotherhood of Mutants)**

**Xavier File(s): 0-2-4, PO Experiment Log.**

Experiment?

Rogue accessed the Xavier File 0-2-4 first.

Immediately, the screen filled up with various screenshots and snippets from various video-feeds. The van, the Blackbird, traffic cameras... a medley of all the times she had been captured on camera using another's gifts. The security feed from the concert, where she had first lost control. Traffic cameras from the time she had battered Wolverine for all his worth. In-school cameras seeing her touch him and her and him, their respective echoes reawakening at the replay, flashing memories across her mind.

The professor's voice filled the room.

* * *

"_Xavier File 0-2-4, Codename Rogue. From what I can understand, she has the ability to mimic others' gifts, much in the style of Cal Rankin (refer to Xavier File 1-3-9 for Cal Rankin, Codename Mimic.) Unlike Rankin, who can accomplish this by proximity alone, Rogue has to come in skin-to-skin contact with whomever she will mimic, seemingly every time she has to borrow their gifts._

_Whenever Rogue touches someone, she forms some sort of link, absorbing their life force, their psychic essence, their memories, personalities and, if any, mutant gifts. The singular major drawback seems that every single contact leaves within the recesses of her mind a psychic after-image, an echo. Similar to multiple personality disorder, she shares a singular brain with many, many personalities, each of them primed and independent. The only way she can cope with this is by keeping self-imposed mental blocks on these personalities – like how she enjoys her privacy. The condition doesn't seem to affect her at the time of this recording, but I have my doubts about how much she can handle. Will she lose control of her gifts if there are more echoes within her than she can live with?_

_Another question is why she can't control the trigger of her gift. Unlike Mimic, she wasn't, to our knowledge, experimented on. Mystique may be many things, but her irrationally strong fear of experimentation, given her affiliations, led me to believe that Rogue wasn't the product of laboratory work._

_My theory refers to Xavier File 0-0-3, Codename Cyclops. His inability to control his optic blast stems from a physical shortcoming, namely, the brain damage he suffered during the accident. Rogue has no such condition, but her inability to control the absorption, if you will, seems to come from her upbringing. Social isolation, enforced deviance and Irene Adler's experiment in extreme parenting, seems to have created in her an aversion to physical contact. Whether or not this might evolve into full-blown aphephobia remains to be seen._

_One further question is whether or not she can absorb physical mutations. Mimic had, upon coming in contact with Kurt Wagner (Xavier File 0-0-7, Codename Nightcrawler), inherited his blue skin, as well as Logan's (Xavier File 0-0-2, Codename Wolverine) claws. Can she mimic those types of mutations as well?_

_Refer to Experiment Logs for conclusions."_

Rogue stopped. This was more than the prof had ever let on. This was, more or less, a breakdown of who she was.

She accessed the experiment logs.

* * *

"_Experiment Log: Codename Rogue. Progressive Overload Experiment._

_My initial forays into her mind during her waking hours have allowed me to understand one thing: her need to make actual physical contact to use her gifts is a psychological need, above all else. It is deeply-seated in her mind, cutting across both the unconscious, subconscious and conscious parts. She has a phobic aversion to intimacy. Try as I might, I cannot erase it without traumatizing her further._

_My presumption is that Rogue has simultaneous access to every gift she has absorbed, and can utilize them at will. This, I base on the fact that the link she forms with her targets is deeply psychic._

_Hence, the first experiment will test how she copes with a progressive overload._

_My operating hypothesis is similar to the frog in boiling water. I will, during her resting periods, gradually remove the lines keeping her echoes and her inner self separate and generate a sense of intimacy within her subconscious. If my hypothesis is proven, she will gradually have access to every gift she has absorbed. I will boil the water slowly so as not to alert the frog, so to speak._

_I do, however, have to be more careful. The power surge experiment I have conducted with Jean Grey (Xavier File 0-0-5) almost was a complete catastrophe due to an unforeseen leap forward on her part. But that near-failure taught me never to lose patience with mutant power experiments. I will not repeat the same mistake again."_

Something about being abstracted to an argumentative concept disturbed her. Chilled her even more than the fact that the prof seemed to be talking about the day she had wiped the floor with her fellow X-Men.

She wondered about what experiment he was talking about, the one with Jean, but could give a fuck about her at that point.

The prof was still speaking.

"_Conclusions: my initial theory has proven right. It so inclined, Rogue can employ any gift she desires, any time she desires it. However, this requires an active presence of the echoes in her conscious mind, and creates a fugue-like episode. Her psychotic breakdown, though not as dangerous as the power surge experiment had been, could only be controlled through Wolverine's inept suggestions, which, in turn, relied on their similarity as people._

_Creating any further trauma would be counter-productive, so as of today, I am stopping the experiment. I will continue trying to devise workarounds for her problem, and, if anything, the experiment will give me total access to her."_

* * *

Her idle hands were trembling as the file shut itself off and returned her to the main index of herself. An emotional explosion was slowly expanding, pushing away all other knots.

Rage. Fear. Disappointment. Sorrow. The feeling of having been violated, used, raped, all of those and so much more, mixing in.

Bile.

Rogue leaned over the chair and threw up whatever light snack she had had before Jean-by-Rogue had taken over her.

Tears. Choking.

Clenched teeth grinding against each other.

It was indescribably bitter – it was as if she was jumping out of her skin, so many emotions bombarding her at once, each one pulling her in a different direction. There was a scream, building, but even the scream wouldn't be enough. She wanted to tear away at that computer console, tooth and nail, bite it free and smash it, destroy it, burn it...

"Rogue!"

Barely-registered presence. Someone there.

Thinking of grey, the abstract, bare concept of grey. Why?

"Jean, get over here, something's..."

"Scott, you really shouldn't..."

"I said get over here!"

Someone there? Someone coming?

Nobody. No. Nobody. No trust left, not to anyone, to anything. Belief and reliance and trust and dependence had all disappeared, had died a few minutes ago with something inside her.

"I can't..." someone whimpering, someone in pain, "Scott, I can't... her mind's too..."

"Rogue? Rogue? Listen to me, _listen! _I'm here! Okay, I'm right here, with you, you hear me?"

Words. Words, all words, all nothing, all without meaning.

Someone in her mind. The presence of another, more alien, more foreign... intrusion, violation, pressuring inwards...

Echoes. Logan-by-Rogue, Taryn-by-Rogue, Kurt-by-Rogue, ululating inside her head.

A scream, in the distance, somewhere.

Scott-by-Rogue, speaking.

* * *

Scott shook Rogue, but it seemed to have no effect. She was curled up in a ball on the chair, before the console, her eyes shut tight and her teeth clenched so tight, he could hear them grinding against one another. He was saying whatever the fuck it was one was supposed to be saying in situations like these; whatever he knew to make a connection.

"It's alright, Rogue! It's alright! Whatever it is, it's alright, you hear me? It's okay! No harm, no foul! It's alright!"

No response. Scott looked at her. Dark red eyes through the ruby quartz of the visor – dead. Staring off to the distance.

"Rogue, it's me, come on! Snap out of it!"

Behind him, Jean, trying her best to get into her mind.

"Jean?"

"No." Jean said, "It's too hard, it's impossible... I can't even bear to be here, she's an emotional atom bomb right now."

"Fuck! Then go get the professor!"

"I'm not gonna leave y..."

"Just do it!"

"Scott Summers, I am..."

"_Go!"_

Jean looked at him and wished she could see through that visor to see what his eyes looked like. But his tone of voice and the sudden increase in his sense of urgency told her all she needed to know.

"Just go, Jean!"

* * *

Jean?

Rogue heard the name and latched onto it. It seemed to mean everything in the world in that moment, and so she sprung into action, fingers hitting the keyboard through the blur of the presence beside her. Quicker than she had ever known, lifting the skill straight from Arcade, she used a ten-finger type to call up Jean's experiment log.

Jean was already gone, however, but upon hearing the first line, Scott's interest was piqued.

"_Experiment Log for Xavier File 0-0-5, Jean Grey: Power Surge Experiment."_

The professor's voice. The traitor's voice.

"_My operating hypothesis is that if a psychic overload was to be induced in her, Jean Grey's mutant gift can extend to psionics. The difficulty in both our cases is that while I'm a powerful telepath, I am not a very good telekinetic. Jean is a very good telekinetic, but her telepathic potency indicates she can be so much better at that._

_My main method is to remove the obstacles I have placed in her mind, that keep her powers from getting out of control. Introduce a new load by increasing the amount of input she receives and see if this will lead to an increase in output."_

A moment's silence.

"_Conclusions: my hypothesis was proven. If placed under load, Jean Grey has the capacity for psionics. However, there is a serious drawback to introducing such a load to her: the increased input induces a psychotic, near-comatose state and she can't maintain enough consciousness to even attempt to control it._

_I would postulate that her subconscious mind blocks out her consciousness in order to cope with the additional input, sacrificing what is otherwise the normal function of her brain in order to make room for the expansion of her gifts._

_This, however, allows me to generate somewhat of a hypothesis when dealing with the uncontrollability of two other subjects. Codename Cyclops and Codename Rogue both have uncontrollable gifts, and if substituting physical brain function for mutant gifts is possible, there might be a way to help them. Mutant gifts are basically the result of a unique frequency DNA/RNA-feedback. If these results of the power surge experiment can be replicated, then there might be a way._

_Then, what should be next on the agenda is a progressive overload experiment. Preferred subject is Codename Rogue."_

Silence. Idle screen light bleeding out, dark blue, drawing shadows across their faces.

The hum of Cerebro in the dark.

Whisper in her ear.

"Rogue..."


	11. Allocution

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Ten: "Allocution"**

There was a white room in the furthest corner of her mind, a white room with nothing in it. She knew the boundaries of the white room and she could change them at will. The white room could change its interior too, but to the outside world, it was just an anonymous white room. It could be anything she wanted, and mostly, she just wanted it to be a white room.

Nobody would think to look for her in there. She would be safe from the outside world. She would be safe from everything.

Looking at the white surrounding her, Rogue had to admit that this was better than that horrid base reality. Cassandra Nova couldn't take anything away from her while she was in the white room. She could have anything she wanted in there. Touch, kiss, fuck, whatever, she would just wish it, and it was hers.

A presence behind her, familiar, warm and desired.

Whisper in the white room.

"Rogue..."

* * *

The colors of grey.

"It's alright! Damn it! It's alright! You're safe!"

Safe? Was she safe?

"Fuck! Why won't you just..."

Choking sound. Somebody sobbing beside.

The colors of grey in her mind. Familiar habits and a familiar touch.

He was not afraid, she sensed it. He wasn't afraid of touching her, not because he didn't know, not because he was not aware of what was going to happen to him, but because he wanted to. Because he needed to. Because he wanted her to know, that it's okay – that he'll make this sacrifice, let her chip away at the block of his life, taking away days and weeks from him, if it makes her feel better.

Reminded him of himself. Reminded him of the first time the professor risked everything, his own life, to put on his visor.

He remembered that loneliness, that despair. Of being in the corner of the hospital room, too afraid to move, eyes closed. In the dark and fearing, every single moment that the moment he stepped forward or moved, he'd fall into endless oblivion. The abject, unnamed fear of nothingness.

Doesn't want her to feel that fear. Doesn't want her to be in the dark.

Knows it's not easy for her – not after everything. Knows why she avoids others, not because all were afraid of her, but she's so comfortable in her little shell that she is deathly afraid of leaving it. Can't make a connection, can't get close. The abject, unnamed fear of intimacy.

He thinks they're the same, in the colors of grey.

She knows his name.

"_Come on!_" he screams, _"Talk to me!"_

"Scott?"

Draws in a breath, realizes she'd almost been oxygen-deprived.

His warm body, his arms, around her, near her, touching her. Unafraid, idiotically brave and impossibly gentle. His scent, his voice, his breath, his mere reality.

She chokes. The bare reality of him is too much.

"He..." she whispers to him, her shoulders slumping. She hasn't moved to embrace him back, "He used me..."

He didn't respond. He wasn't emotionless, they both knew through their slight contact, his hair touching her cheek. He was experiencing the numbness brought on by utter shock. Something in him, she felt, rebelled to the very idea of the Professor having to do with something like this. It refused, denied, screamed at silence the other opinions, but failed each time.

There was, beneath all this, a loss for words.

Scott simply didn't know what to say.

"Rogue, it's alright... please, just..." he drew away, reminding her that he had been holding onto her. She reached out instantly, and pulled him in, her arms around his neck.

"Don't go!"

"Rogue, let me go, I'll just..." he choked. She could already feel herself draining him, "... take a back-up."

She released him instantly, prompting him to lean back, his breath heavy. Shaking it off, he turned to the Cerebro console.

"Audio command, on."

The neutral, mechanical voice of the computer.

"_Audio command on."_

"Take a back-up of the Xavier Files database, all of it."

"_Xavier Files are read-only."_

"Eject the disk drive they are stored on."

"_Ejecting drive will result in the termination of current session."_

"Accept."

With a small click, one of the disk-drives assembled right underneath the screen jutted forward. Scott picked it up and slid it into his uniform's pocket.

Rogue watched his movements as if she was watching a movie from miles away. Scott reached out, held out his gloved hand.

"Come on, R... you know what, in all this time, you'd think I'd get to hear your name."

Rogue felt tears sting her eyes. Knew enough of him to know that this was his way of coping: making small talk. Making conversation. Always had been.

"Come on," he knelt in front of her, his attention desperate to be focused on something else than what the disk drive in his pocket contained, "Tell me."

"Taker." She said, "Thief. Pet Science Project. Experiment. Progressive Overload. Rapist. Rogue. Jean Grey. Kurt Wagner."

"Rogue, what is your name? Your own name, the name behind the Rogue?"

"Katherine Pryde. Ororo Munroe. Evan Daniels. Victor Creed. Duncan Matthews. Raven Darkholme."

"Rogue, stop..."

"Dog Logan! Henry McCoy! Jamie Madrox! Amara Aquilla! Robert Drake! Tabitha Smith! Jubilation Lee! Rahne Sinclair!"

Rogue reached forward and grabbed Scott by the uniform, her fingers digging into the elastic fabric. She stumbled forward, and Scott supported her. She instantly pushed him, moving along with him, and they both stumbled towards the computer.

"What..." Scott could let out.

Rogue was screaming.

"Sam Guthrie! Taryn Fujioka! Pietro Maximoff! Ray Crisp! Lance Alvers! Fred Dukes! Cain Marko! Wanda Maximoff! Amanda Sefton! Erik Magnus! Cody..." a sob, shaking her shoulders, breaking her voice, "Cody Rogers..."

Rogue broke completely.

* * *

Her knees buckled and she fell. Scott held her tightly, and tried to lower her gently while she wept against his chest. Choking on her own tears, she was constantly whispering his name. His name and last name. For a moment, Scott wondered if she was trying to say something and couldn't get past his name.

Then, he understood. It had been one of her names: Scott Summers.

"Scott... Scott..."

"Shhhh... don't be sad. I'm here. I'm right here."

"Ah hurt... Ah hurt... you... he..."

"You're not going to hurt me, Rogue. You're safe now. I'll protect you."

"Why... why..."

"I don't know." He sighed, gently rocking her back and forth, "I don't know... I just... don't know if..."

"Scott? Rogue?"

The professor's voice.

* * *

Scott almost lost his own balance when Rogue let out a shriek. She made a jack move, her body springing like a trap and throwing him, almost, to the ground. He held on, constantly whispering her that it would all be fine, that she was safe, that it was alright, that everything would be just fine.

Anything he knew just to keep her from screaming.

"See?" he whispered as he wrenched his left arm free, "I'm not letting go, I'm not, I'm just gonna keep one hand on my visor. You're safe. I'm safe."

Rogue sobbed and choked.

Scott knew she'd exhaust herself eventually, and let her weep. Very nice that she could cry. He couldn't.

But, then again, his eyes could do a lot more than just crying.

* * *

When Charles Xavier came into his view, perched atop his wheelchair and in his dark brown nightrobe, with Jean by his side, he pressed one hand lightly against his visor, and it took everything to keep it from pushing the firing stud.

"Stay where you are, both of you! If I get one inkling, one stray thought, I'm taking this fucking visor off and wasting the both of you!"

"Scott, what..." Jean started, but Cyclops cut her off.

"Jean, get behind me! It's not safe!"

Charles wasn't saying anything.

"I'm not going to move an inch unless you tell me what's going on!" Jean declared.

"Fine, you wanna know what's going on? Ask _him!"_

Jean turned to Charles.

"What does he mean, professor?"

"I haven't the slightest." Charles replied, "If you could be a little clearer, Scott, I..."

Cyclops moved his gaze a little lower, to Charles' feet and pushed the trigger. The ruby-red beam fizzled in the air and tore into the metal alloy.

"That was a warning! Don't jerk me around, Xavier!"

"Scott, have you lost your fucking mind!?" Jean shrieked, "That's it, I'm..."

"Don't even try, Jean!" Scott said, "The moment you do anything, this visor's coming off and you're getting it raw! He's used me, he's used _her! _He used _you _as well!"

"What are you babbling about?"

"Tell her about the Xavier Files, about the experiments." Cyclops said, turning his gaze back to the professor, "Tell her! Tell her everything!"

Charles hesitated, but Cyclops' shouted encouragement caused him to raise his hand.

"That is enough, Scott! There are certain things..."

The beginning of the sentence irritated him past the point where he wanted to hold back. He simply tore the visor free of his face and unleashed a raw, screaming, blood red optic blast.

Jean held out her arms, focusing on the thought of being shielded, being home, with her parents, safe from harm. The telekinetic shield emerged a split nanosecond before Cyclops' attack hit it.

Scott closed his eyes placed the visor back on, finger on the trigger, and said;

"That was your final warning!"

Jean took a step forward, but Charles rose his hand to stop her.

"No, Jean! No."

"But..."

"It's alright, Jean. I'll explain to you what's happening."

"And don't you fucking _dare_ leave anything out!"

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Scott," Jean said, "But Rogue jumps up every time you shout a word for emphasis."

"Just listen!"

* * *

Charles Xavier addressed his audience: a broken Rogue, a very angry Cyclops and a baffled Jean Grey.

"It's a database that I created to pool together the information I collected on Cerebro. Information regarding the world's mutants. Emergent mutants, power levels, where they were, what they could do... and in some cases, like in Wolverine's I am not the slightest afraid to tell, how they can be killed if need be."

"Why?" Jean asked.

Rogue whimpered, drifting in and out of consciousness in Scott's arms. She couldn't see through the weariness draping itself across her mind.

"Because there are specimens like my brother or Wanda Maximoff who are simply too powerful to be left to their own devices. Further, should any of them become the enemy, we'd need methods of dealing with them."

"Does the list include the X-Men?"

"Every mutant Cerebro has located, is on the list." Charles said, "Now, Scott, if..."

"'Said don't fuck with me! Tell her about the experiments! Tell her about the progressive overload, the increased input! _Tell her what you did to her!"_

"I already know." Jean said.

Scott felt his hand on the visor's firing stud freeze. Everything, his surge, the limp Rogue pressed up against him, his anger, his thoughts... everything came to a sudden halt.

"...What?"

"I know that when I lost control that time, it was the professor's doing." She said, "He wanted to see if I could cope with a little bit more than I normally did – he removed some of the mental blocks he had put up to see if I could cope."

"Did you _know _he was doing it!?"

"Not at the time, no. He told me after the fact. But I understood what he was doing. He was trying to help me, and trying to make it seem like my own accomplishment."

"He fed you that line and you fucking believed him!?"

"Scott!" Jean's voice rose an octave, "I have known the professor all my life, and I have no reason to doubt his sincerity! Now can you please take your hand off the trigger? Whatever else you found in that computer, I am sure the professor had a logical explanation for it! Even if he didn't overload me to help me, he ended up _helping me_. That's what counts, isn't it?"

Scott was at a loss for words.

He turned to Rogue for help.

She had lost consciousness. He listened in. She was breathing. He gently picked her up, feeling her weight and knowing she was simply exhausted.

"Let's just... calm down." Jean said, both hands lifted in a surrendering gesture, "Why don't we?"

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but Scott reaching for his visor while looking at him made him decide against it.

"Scott, just..." Jean started, but got much the same answer.

Carrying Rogue in his arms, he walked past them. Jean attempted to follow, but Charles, sensing Scott's anger, stopped her.

"Let him go, Jean." He said.

* * *

Scott took Rogue back up into the mansion, up the stairs and into her room. Kicking the door open, he woke Kitty, who phased right through the bed and ended up under it. He laid Rogue onto her own bed, taking great care not to put her in an awkward position.

"Scott?" Kitty asked, scratching her frizzed hair, "Wha... what'cha doin?"

It actually was a good question. He had done all that he could to keep himself from killing Charles Xavier then and there. He had taken Rogue away from him and into her room, but, what was he doing, really? When it came down to it, what was he doing?

He looked at Kitty, the friend he had come to know. She was wearing her pink pajamas, scratching her head constantly and with half-open eyes, trying to comprehend why he was there. He looked at their room. He had a room like this one, further down the hall. Why was he in Rogue's? What was he doing?

He realized, with morbid surprise, that he thought it was where she'd be safe. But, with that thought came another realization: that the mansion, or anywhere near Charles Xavier was no longer safe... no. That it never had been.

So, what was he doing, then? What was his plan?

"I came to get her stuff but... seems so..."

"Unnn... her stuff? Why'd you need Rogue's stuff?"

Why, indeed? What was he doing?

In that moment, the question he wanted to ask to a very sleepy and confused Kitty Pryde was completely unrelated to it all. But it was there and it just seemed appropriate. The question had suddenly gained grave importance to him.

"Kitty, do you know her name?"

"Whose name? Are you like, drunk or something?"

"Rogue's name." he said, "Do you know her name?"

Kitty thought about it, sighing, one hand on her hip. After mulling it over, she said;

"No. I don't. She's just... Rogue."

She thought it was weird of her to even say that. She cocked her head sideways and glared at Scott. He was just standing there, looking at the sleeping Rogue.

"Why'd you ask?" Kitty asked.

Scott, without taking his eyes off of Rogue, said, softly, "I don't think she knows."

He looked at her. Like all the other times he had looked at all the others, only this time, actually looked at her. She seemed incredibly vulnerable. Completely defenseless. With others, Scott at least could give them the benefit of the doubt – they all had abilities to help them, to a degree. She didn't.

So who'd defend her?

What was _he_ doing?

"Kitty, I'm sorry for this, but you gotta help me. Please."

Kitty looked at him. She'd never seen him like this, not even when Jean had lost control. Something was the matter and she wasn't sure if it was too large for her, or if she simply couldn't be bothered. Either way, seeing him standing there, shaking, as if he was barely able to keep it together, moved something within her.

"Alright. You owe me, Cyke."

"Cyke?"

"Cyclops."

"I'm not your pet."

"If you want this done, your name is Cyke."

Cyclops felt that he could crack up. Laughter was coming, but it would only turn into tears, he knew.

"Fine." He said, "My name is Cyke, then."


	12. Never Tell the Widow

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Eleven: "Never Tell the Widow"**

Scott told Kitty to pack whatever she could, but not to be a total girl while doing it: actual clothing mattered more than useless trinkets of sentimental value or make-up. He told her that they couldn't take everything, and Kitty agreed: Rogue, without any other place to go to, had amassed quite a lot of stuff in her half of a double-room. Scott knew. He had a room just like that, one he shared, nowadays, with Jean.

Jean. Even the name tasted bitter now. It had always been bittersweet, but it had run out of sweet ten minutes ago on the tactical floor. Scott had always noticed Jean's duality. On one hand, Jean Grey: caring, generous, eager to help others, almost a queen of empathy (even without any mutant gifts) and exemplary student. On the other hand, Jean Grey: cheerleader, jock-bait, status-seeker, self-appointed queen-bee, ambition-engine, selfish and very much hypocritical.

And this time, he was sick of both sides.

* * *

He burst into their room and stopped dead at his tracks. It wasn't the room, or its familiarity, it was that he just didn't know where to start. For the last few years, this place had been his home. He didn't have any other place to go, he didn't have anything else, just this.

He smiled. Heh. That was the trap. He had fallen in, gotten too attached. First lesson he'd learned in the orphanage: have fun while it lasts, ride it out, but don't get too attached. You never know. One mistake and you're back where you've started, nowhere and with nothing.

Was this his back to square one? Nowhere and nothing?

"Hey, Slim. Mind tellin' me what's got your adrenaline through the roof?"

* * *

Logan. Scott turned to him. Whatever Logan saw on his face, it prompted him to move further into the room and close the door behind him. To keep out prying eyes and ears. Scott could hear a commotion starting to build outside – Kitty's voice, mixed with the idle, but rising, murmur of others.

"What's this all about?"

Scott opened his mouth to respond, but shut it right back up when he remembered the disk. It was still in his pocket. He took it out and presented it.

"'s this?"

"It's a disk drive from Cerebro. In it is in-depth information about world's mutants. Who they are, where they are, what they can do, how they can be killed..."

"What'm _I_ gonna do with it?"

"Take it. Keep it safe."

Silence.

"'_said take it!"_

Logan took the disk and pocketed it.

"What's all this about, Summers?"

"I need to get out of here, and so does Rogue. Now. We shouldn't be here."

"What's got you all worked up?" Logan asked, "You can at least tell me all that."

"Xavier can't be trusted!" Scott declared, "That's all I can tell you. It's not safe for us to be here, and I'm not sure if it's safe for anyone!"

"Slow down, Slim. Give me the straight, not some snippet judgment."

"There's no time! The sooner we're out, the better! Are you gonna help me, or not?"

Logan looked at him. He didn't have any particular objections to what the kid wanted: it was his business and none of Logan's own. If he wanted to go, and take Rogue, Logan knew Rogue wouldn't object and he really wanted to hit the road.

Logan knew that he, too, had been wantin' to hit the road. Wanderlust and all that. Wanted to get out of the institute for a while, be on his own. Either Summers was on a similar thing, or he was havin' some sorta crisis. Both cases, he saw no reason why he shouldn't tag along for a while.

"Better than that. I'm comin' with, 'least till I make sure you two are on your way."

"But..." Scott said, "...you don't know where we're... going."

"I don't know where I'm goin' either. Doesn't keep me from goin' there, wherever it is."

Scott and Logan looked at each other. Scott could laugh, if he didn't feel that laughing would push him over the edge.

"So, what's the plan here?"

What was the plan? What was he going to do?

"Well, you go do your thing, and keep Xavier and Jean off our backs, please. I'll take care of things here."

The door was pushed open, creaking on the hinges, and Scott didn't have to look to see who it was. Only one person opened doors like that, by starting to rip them off the hinges and then deciding to open them.

* * *

Jean glared at Logan, who didn't say anything and brushed past her. He had better things to do, like take a few spare clothes or warm up the bike. Or tell the nosy young mutants to get off their case. There was already a pile-up on the other end of the hall, in and near Rogue and Kitty's room.

"Hey!" he called out, "Get outta there!"

* * *

Jean stood there, watching Scott, who, upon seeing her, moved. He remembered, suddenly, where the luggage was, where his clothes were. He hadn't even forgotten any of it – then why had he even stopped when in the room? The plausible answer was, at the point, Xavier or Jean. Mental interference. Fucking telepaths.

He went to the built-in wardrobe and retrieved two electric blue (bright red to him) LLBean carry-ons, thin and long. They took more than they let on. He placed them adjacent to one another and opened one.

Jean was just standing there, watching him.

He proceeded then to both ignore her and start by opening up the lower partition of the one he planned to use. He'd put socks, underwear and small stuff there. Then, the rest of his clothes, along with his uniform, would go into one. He could fit all of his belongings into a singular piece, yes, and he suspected that Rogue's stuff would take up the other one.

"Aren't we at least going to talk about this?" Jean asked.

"No."

Scott went to the dresser and started to extract his stuff.

"Don't you think you're over-reacting?" Jean asked, "I mean, whatever he did, you _know _the professor wouldn't do it to hurt us."

"I'm not convinced his intentions are pure." Scott said, going back and forth between the luggage and the dresser, "I'm not even convinced that the reason why he told you was just so you'd know. The fact that he'd even consider experimenting not with but _on _his students is enough for me."

"But he did it to help, can't you see that? To help me grow, to help me understand my gifts and..."

"See, that's the reason, Jean," Scott said, putting in the last of the small stuff and closing the compartment, "why I'm leaving. That's just it."

"I don't get it."

Scott proceeded to take his clothes out of the wardrobe, along with the hangers. He had to spend some time folding them, because he didn't know where they were going, or how presentable they'd have to look for it.

"Will you just stop for a second!?" Jean asked, marching up to him. She slid in between him and the wardrobe, "I mean it, Scott, why won't you just talk to me?"

"What do you wanna talk about, exactly? About how, how the professor has our best interests in mind when he conducts his research on us without our knowledge or consent? About how almost getting you killed, Rogue catatonic and a lot more of us hurt is somehow helping us?"

"You're not listening to me, he helped me!"

"_Exactly! _He helped _you! _But what about me, huh? What about Rogue!?"

"Oh, this is just so typical. You and your Rogue. What the fuck is it with you and her, Scott? Why do you care so much!?"

"What, what're you implying there? Is there a thought behind that question, or did you just seriously ask me why I care for another mutant!?"

Jean put one hand on her temple. Scott knew the gesture – she would now try to pull the argument to a more neutral, calmer ground. What she didn't know this time around was that he had no intention of doing that. He didn't even want to talk to her.

"Scott, I'm just... trying to figure this out."

"Move."

"I won't, not until..."

"Don't make me move you."

Jean looked at him with utter disbelief, the likes of which, Scott had never seen before. She moved, letting him through.

"Listen, I'm not saying he was right in hiding it." Jean said, "Okay? I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that maybe there is no safe way of taking powers under control. Maybe some experiments, some tampering, needs to be done. How else is he supposed to further understand what we are, let alone how we work, Scott?"

Scott clenched his teeth. He didn't want to say it, but if Jean kept this line of argument for long, he would.

"Stop it, Jean."

"I'm not giving you the Machiavellian bullshit, the ends justify the means, no. But there are times when the ends have to justify the means. Like animal testing – only there aren't any X-Gene animals around for us to test these things on! How else can we learn?"

Scott stopped dead at his tracks. He looked at her. Not through another visual mode, not through emotion, but just looked at her. She was angry, yes, she didn't quite grasp it, how could she? For the two weeks she couldn't control her power and that one time she accepted, she didn't know what it was like to be at the mercy of something that her own body just did. She didn't know what it was like to live with that, to live on the precipice constantly. One wrong move, one touch, one brush against his head... boom.

She didn't even know.

* * *

Jean started pacing the room. Scott could almost hear her thoughts. She was, doubtless, thinking of what she should say.

There was nothing, only she didn't know it.

Scott refused to say anything to break the silence. He hastily gathered whatever he had in the wardrobe and stuffed it in the carry-on. Briefly went to the bathroom to get whatever he needed to get, and stuffed them in also. It didn't all fit, so he put some of it in Rogue's instead. When that was done, he just picked them up and headed to the door.

"Scott, don't..." Jean said, "Don't leave. Please."

"We're through, Jean." He said.

A sob. A whimper. He wasn't so angry that he was insensitive to what he had done to her. Knew it hurt.

"I can't stay here." He said, thinking, he owed her at least that much, "I can't stay here anymore. After this, I can't trust Charles Xavier, or anything else he says. I mean, already, I don't know how much of what happened around us, the freak accidents and the power surges, was his doing and how much of it just happened. If I know myself, I know I'll always doubt. I'll question everything. That's why I can't stay."

"I can't go with you." Jean said, "You know that."

"I know."

"So why won't you stay with me? We'll find a way, together."

"No. We can't. Not with you so eager to take his word for it."

"Scott, he helped me when nobody else could, when I thought nobody else would... I can't just..."

"I didn't even think for one second that you'd leave Uncle Charlie, Jean."

She was crying and he could hear her. Sadly, he thought, he didn't care all that much.

"I'm sorry if this is painful for you." He said, "But the fact of the matter is, I have to go. We're through."

"Why do you keep saying that!? What did I do!?"

"Jean, we were through half an hour ago, when you told me he could have an explanation for everything. So, no, I can't stay. Goodbye."

He got out and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

The other doors along the hallway were hastily shut after Scott got out of the room: apparently, the rumor mill had just produced independent think-tanks all across the floor, and quite possibly all around the mansion.

He shook it off. More important things to worry about.

Taking both carry-ons, he dragged them towards Kitty and Rogue's room, abandoning a very distraught Jean behind him. It seemed very funny to him that somebody who had meant so much to him for a long time, for years, had just stopped meaning anything.

He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't know what she was feeling. He could relate, damn him. Knew and felt that it was hard for her, that it was hard_er_ for her.

It wasn't that difficult for him: after all, fun while it lasted, but he should not have gotten too attached.


	13. Bastard

"_**Touch"**_

**Chapter Twelve: "Bastard"**

Logan was waiting for him by the door. He had a small suitcase with him, had his cowboy hat on and was in his road clothes. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"Heard most of it. Sorry."

"It's alright. What's going on in there?"

"All packed and ready. Stripe's not too good, though. She's awake, but she's..."

A crashing sound, something fragile, maybe glass or porcelain, breaking, came from Jean's room. Scott guessed that it was either a frame or something more malleable.

"She's pretty out of it." Logan said.

"Jean?"

"Rogue. I know Jeannie well enough to know how this'll fuck her up, but it's not too out of the ordinary."

"I guess... I feel... I feel like I'm the one losing out. Like I'm giving up everything, including her, to just... run. But I always felt it, y'know." He leaned against the wall, letting the luggage drop, "Always felt this... what did you call it, wanderlust?" Logan nodded, "Always felt the need to go. Back in the orphanage, I'd get with families, who'd just... do stuff. Take me places. They always returned me to the orphanage because I was too silent, too meek. I learned that these places, these _homes_ you have are only temporary. They're comfy, sure, and fun while they last, but I can never quite get attached to 'em."

Logan didn't say anything. He knew what Scott meant, and would say something, but only when he knew Scott was done.

"I'm thinking, that's also true for most people in my life. Like girls. Taryn. The one before her... always temporary. Fun while it lasts."

"Listen here, Slim, and listen good. That gal there ain't someone who is fun while it lasts. Neither was Jeannie, but that's none of my business, I wasn't part of that deal. I'm a part of this one. And if you're takin' Rogue away from the only home she's known on accounta fuck knows what, you better make sure you're in it for the long haul. For the right reasons. This ain't some dick move you're gonna be able to double-back on."

"I know that. I don't have any illusions about it. I'll just... see. See where this goes."

"Make it up as you go?"

"Something like that."

Silence.

"Just do me a favor."

"Depends on the favor."

"Don't tell Jean I told you this. She doesn't know."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Even if she does... don't tell her."

"Whatever you say, Cyke."

"Oh, not you too."

* * *

The door opened and Logan went inside. Scott followed suit, dragging the carry-ons along. Inside, Rogue's stuff had been packed into three, large, black trolley cases. There wasn't much left in her side of the room, aside from the things she couldn't take with her – books, CD's, various mascots and small toys...

"All done." Kitty said, "Rogue, you ready to get up?"

Scott looked at Rogue.

She didn't seem ready, at all. Dark circles under her puffy eyes, her hair a mess, her face pale and her eyes... utterly and completely dead. She didn't even respond, didn't appear to see them at all. Didn't show any awareness.

"Scott, like, where're you going?" Kitty asked, worry in her voice.

Scott turned to see the bright-red puppy dog eyes she was making and smiled. He'd miss that, certainly.

"Can't tell you that, Kitty cat." He said, "I don't want Xavier to know."

"If he doesn't already." Logan commented, "Well, I'm gonna start loadin' these into your car, shouldn't take a bit. I'll pull it up front, so you don't have to go down to the garage."

"Thanks."

"Anytime, bub."

He took two of Rogue's suitcase and put them on top of one another. Balancing them on one shoulder, he took the carry-ons with one hand and started to drag them alongside as he moved.

Scott sat down next to Rogue. She seemed so... broken. There was no other way to describe it – something she had before, something alive and real, had just been lost. Replaced by a void. Her face was absolutely blank, no emotion or thought reflecting across it.

For a moment, Scott feared she was in a coma, or catatonic.

Kitty's presence. Worried, shying away, yet curious and eager to ask.

"Scott are you like, going away for good?" Kitty asked.

"Yes." He said, snapping his fingers right under Rogue's nose. She blinked instantly. Good. She was just...

She was just gutted. Like that was any better.

Not any better, he told himself, just lesser of two evils. Like Xavier had been to Magneto.

"Why?"

"Can't tell you that either. Not now, anyway. It'd take too much time, and I don't want to be any later than this and end up having to sleep on it. I'll tell you when we have an address you can send the rest of our stuff to. I'll let you know."

"But..."

"I'm sorry."

Kitty stood there, lingering, unable to say anything, wanting to say everything. She didn't understand at all. She and Rogue didn't really get along, despite her best efforts to reach her, but Scott was practically a big brother to her, like all the others. Her other family. What was she even supposed to say?

"I'm sorry." Scott repeated.

Kitty tried to speak. A knot in her throat didn't let her. She just turned around and ran out of the room.

* * *

Scott turned to Rogue. Leaned in, getting closer to her ear. Whispered her name, hoping to get her attention. She slowly turned her head and looked at him through messy, white strands. Looked at him like she had never seen him before, like she didn't recognize him at all.

"We have to go now, Rogue." Scott said, "We have to, okay? Can you walk?"

A slow, steady nod.

"Then, let's go. Come on."

Scott dragged the final suitcase along with him while gently maneuvering Rogue via a firm grip on her arm. He took great care not to touch skin; he wouldn't mind, normally, but he had to be alert now and couldn't have her sapping his strength. Wished he didn't have to. Wished _she_ didn't have to.

Behind him, a commotion. He could feel the doors opening and could almost picture the heads looking out from within rooms, to see if it was true, if the Cyclops was leaving with the Rogue.

He was.

He could hear the whispers, the off-handed speculations slowly spreading like a wildfire. He could picture the rumor mill working for months on end, every single cluster of people, every single haphazard think-tank formed to decipher his reasons falling to awkward and ashamed silence whenever Jean walked by. And she'd not like any of it, she'd start to get angry and one day, blow up. Months of misery and then, recovery.

A bitter part of him noted, she'd find another jock. Another Dunc the Lunk. Another asshole.

It didn't matter now.

They got to the stairs, and Scott lifted the suitcase. It was heavy – nothing he couldn't handle, but it was difficult and awkward trying to get both the suitcase and Rogue down.

"There are stairs." He told her, "When I tell you to stop descending, stop. Okay?"

Nod.

"Let's go, Rogue. Come on. One step. One step."

One by one by one, they got down.

Charles Xavier was waiting for them by the front door.

* * *

Scott took two steps forward, dragging Rogue and the suitcase along, but he then stopped. Charles seemed intent on staying right where he was, between them and the door. They stood in silence for a moment. Scott couldn't voice his thoughts. He was tired, had a long, long drive ahead of him, and he didn't even know how he was supposed to get there.

"Scott, I..."

"Save it. I don't want to hear it."

Silence. Why wasn't he just hopping in and leaving? Why was he still standing there, talking to Charles Xavier? Was it because he felt that he owed the man that much?

Or was it because Xavier was making him to that?

"One question, that is all." Xavier said, "I am the only one who knows the passcode to access the files. Nobody else knows, and that is the plain and simple truth. How do you think Rogue even knew it?"

"Because you knew." Scott said, "All your sessions together, she must have picked it up."

Charles shook his head.

"No. Remember, about three weeks ago, I had a bad night and all of your powers got out of control? Remember the headaches that Hank was worried about, that you intentionally overheard?"

Scott didn't say anything.

"It was because while I was asleep, I was still active. Involuntary telepathic output, it was wearing me out. It was my guilt, you see... I understood tonight once more why I could feel at all guilty: it was because I felt that, in Rogue's terms, I was using all of you. It was my guilt that exposed my... research, for lack of a better term, to her."

"That research meant a lot to you, didn't it?"

"Scott, it's the product of years of extensive work. Besides, I... I told Jean because I couldn't bear to keep it from her."

Scott smiled. Charles relaxed visibly; at last, a positive response! Scott started to laugh, and that was when Charles' relaxation went away.

"You bastard." Scott said, "Almost had me fooled for a second there. Couldn't keep it from her? What about _her?"_ he cocked his head in Rogue's direction, "What did you tell her about all this!? You know, the only reason you even told me all of that right now is because you're hoping I will see that as a redeeming feature. Well, news flash: I don't. I don't, because I see through you. And no, I won't give you the disk drive."

Charles' eyes narrowed to slits. In all his years of knowing him, Scott had never seen such an expression. Anger was radiating off of the telepath in waves, and Scott saw, with a sense of apprehension and victory, that Charles Xavier was finally, actually angry.

Scott waited, anticipating the blow.

Nothing.

Charles stood there, breathing in deep, and calmed himself down gradually. His presence receded. He hung his head, and slowly moved out of their way. Scott walked past him.

"You're making a mistake." Charles said as he was about to open the door, "A grave mistake."

"It's my mistake." Scott replied, "I'm going to suffer the consequences, not you."

"You're dragging Rogue along, so, no. Both of you will be suffering the consequences of _your_ actions."

Scott opened the door, and without saying anything else, walked out.

* * *

Logan was waiting for them outside, leaning against his bike. Behind him, Scott's car, the trunk still open to welcome the last suitcase if there was room for it. Scott gently pushed Rogue towards Logan. She stumbled, but he got her. Holding her on her feet, he watched Scott load the last of their luggage to the car.

"So, where to?"

"Chicago."

Logan rose an eyebrow.

"The Academy of Tomorrow?"

"I've only decided just now, but I figure it's the best thing to do. Plus, it's not too drastic a change of environment." Slammed the trunk shut, "And maybe she can help Rogue."

"I got some... experience with Emma Frost." Logan said, "'think I can get ya through the door. The rest is up to you, though."

"Don't think she'd reject us anyway. Not with what I've got."

"Technically, Slim, I'm the one who's got it."

"Just keep it safe, please. It's important."

"I'd say..."

Scott returned to Rogue. She looked like she could barely stand on her own two feet. He supported her by placing one hand under her arm and walked her to the car. He opened the door and gently placed her on the seat. As he leaned over to buckle her seat belt, Rogue reached out and embraced him, pulling him closer. Scott, unable to respond, could only remain in that position.

Rogue whispered something. She was repeating it.

"Scott!"

Jean's voice. Behind them. Scott couldn't turn, but he heard Logan respond.

"Let it go, Jeannie."

"What do you call this!? What is this!?"

"Chuck! Would you keep her where she is? Summers, we need to roll, come on!"

All Scott could hear in the final, desperate commotion in front of the mansion was Rogue's whisper. All he could feel was the tears sliding down her cheeks and her trembling arms.

"Ah'm sorry... Ah'm sorry... Ah'm sorry... Ah'm sorry..."

Scott did the only thing he knew. He shifted, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered:

"It's alright."

* * *

Rogue relaxed slowly, and drifted into sleep. Scott gently let her go and got into the driver's seat. The engine came to life and sent delightful vibrations throughout the car, assuring Scott that he was almost on the road now. On the road to what, exactly, he didn't quite know, but he knew that the Xavier Institute had been just another home for him. Just another home. Had done stuff with him, had taken him places, but in the end, there he was, back to his square one.

A pair of hands slammed on the door. Scott turned to face Jean. In the dim lights of the mansion's garden, he could see teardrops glistening. Jean stood there, unable to speak, and then, leaned forward, one hand on his cheek. Turned his head and kissed him. She lingered there, her lips trembling, almost sobbing into him. She pulled back after a short while.

"Don't go." She said, "Please, please stay."

"I can't. I'm sorry."

She sobbed.

"Do me a favor, Jean." Scott said, "Make the next one someone better, okay? Someone more."

"Scott, I..."

"No. Just promise."

Jean looked at him. Looking into her eyes, he could almost hear her heart shattering. But he knew, better than she ever would, that every heart was meant to be broken. He had never wanted it to come to this, but it had come to it.

She couldn't bear to speak.

"Goodbye, Jean."

* * *

Scott drove through the path he knew so very well; the road leading to the outer door of the mansion. He had come through those doors many times in that car, at every possible time of the day, and strangely enough, this time didn't feel any different.

He stopped before the gates, Logan's bike by his side, waiting for them to open. He looked to the side, to Rogue. She had finally fallen asleep. She looked worn out, she looked absolutely torn. Gutted, yes, but she was at least sleeping. Resting.

Maybe her dreams would heal her.

He didn't want to disturb her in the slightest. He just hoped to be away from everything that was trying to get to her before she woke up.


	14. Epilogue

"_**Touch"**_

**Epilogue**

The sense of the road, brought on by the bare scent of the morning mingling with that of cold asphalt and warm tires, the feeling of the morning breeze through her hair. Road salt taste, gravel sensation: like trampled snow, traveled across a million times over but still untouched, still virginal... still being discovered.

The lazy road-awakening, tired from the night before and tired throughout the day, yet ready to cross a greater distance.

She lifted her head, to look at the driver's seat. It was empty. She then noticed, that there was no motion. She was sitting in what she knew to be Scott's car. Somewhere.

Looked around. Generic roadside scenery, the clichés of the scenic route: mountains, some covered with the green of trees and maquis and bushes, thick wall of trees on either side of the neatly-poured asphalt. Anonymous diner/fuel stop around her. The scent of water pooling on aged concrete mixing with that of stray gasoline droplets, the sense of thick, black, flammable liquids through stainless-steel pipes across her skin.

A coat of dust on her.

A ding and a familiar voice saying thank you attracted her attention. She turned to the side.

There he was. Jeans, a red t-shirt, black Chuck Taylors, walking with a smile. His glasses, red and gleaming under the morning sun, adding to his aura of contentment. He was coming to the car, armed with two large 5 liter-water bottles and three nylon bags filled with what she could make out to be cookies, chips and various other snacks. He put everything in the back seat, right next to one of the suitcases Rogue recognized to be hers.

He walked around the car and got to the driver's seat.

Then, he turned to her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She couldn't respond. It wasn't anything in particular, it was just that the question was too difficult to answer. How was she feeling? She didn't even know.

"Rogue? You okay?"

Concern in his voice. Damning, almost cruel.

"Scott..."

Silence. His presence, there, real. His attention, undivided.

What she wanted. That which she didn't know what to do with.

"Where are we?" she asked, seeking neutral ground.

He started the engine and moved onto the road. After going for a few minutes, he pulled over.

"We're very near this town called Binghamton. There should be a Holiday Inn or something, somewhere we can crash for the day. I know that driving by day is better, just... I don't feel very comfortable doing it. I think you could use a real bed, too."

One hand on her shoulder. His warm touch, lingering there, making her shiver. Too much sensation for a body that wasn't used to it at all.

"Where're we headed?"

"Chicago. Emma Frost's Academy of Tomorrow."

She didn't get it. Her mind was too jumbled, under too heavy a load to work properly.

"You okay?"

Concerned caress of his hand, his fingers sort of sliding across her shoulder, cupping it in the palm.

Rogue noticed then, that the waking thought had been her own this time. First in a long, long while. She didn't know what to do now that she had to face her own thoughts, feel her own feelings. It scared her. She looked at her lap, at her knees. Her hands, curled up into fists. Black nail polish peeling away, in desperate need of a fresh coat.

"Ah want to ask ya somethin." She said, "Ah have ta know somethin."

"Go ahead."

"Why aren'tcha afraid of touchin me? Everybody else avoids it. You don't. Ah'm just wonderin... just wonderin why that is."

Scott smiled. His gentle, compassionate smile she had come to know so well.

"Remember the first lesson of... well, the first lesson? What does it say? That people want to escape from, or destroy, what they don't understand. Others think, one touch and they're doomed, like it'll give them cancer. I know different."

His hand ran through her hair. She shivered all over, the contact point sending waves across her body. The palm moved to her cheek. Rogue shivered again, sighing. Almost needy, almost ready to give away everything.

Closed her eyes. Wanted to savor it.

His emotions came rushing in. How tired he was from the night, desperate for a real bed and some good night's rest, but too much to do before that, too much distance to cover. Too much vigilance to spare for her.

Concern for her. Thoughts on whether she'd be alright or not, whether they had enough money, where Alex was, whether Emma Frost would be better than Charles Xavier, whether this was the right thing to do.

If he was making a mistake. If he was helping her.

Then, the hand withdrew. Something in her cried out for more, screamed for more of it. Not just one touch, of so much more, of so much more...

"This is what I know."

Rogue looked at him, unable to understand completely, aware bitterly of her flushed cheeks, slightly heavy breathing.

"I know that this is okay." He said, "I'm safe. You're not going to hurt me."

The words. His, and now hers. Real, there, and hers.

Hers alone. Hers to keep.

She couldn't help herself. Something rose from within her, a wave of emotion, of pure, raw, focused feeling. She choked on her own tears and wept, sobbing. Scott reached out and threw one arm over her, and she scooted closer to him, resting her head against his chest. She slid down, gradually, and rest on his stomach. Drew her knees to her chest and continued to cry, to release.

The reality of him, beside.

Safe. Warm.

Home.

"It's alright, Rogue." Scott said, "It's going to be alright."

And she believed him.


End file.
